The Poart Mystery I: The Girl and the Golden River
by Arget Vindr
Summary: When trying to find inspiration for a new story - Tintin finds a missing woman from a cold case. Anne Poart supposedly died in a fire that destroyed her home and killed her husband, but when Tintin saves her life he is, yet again, caught up with something way over his head but is everything as it seems? I own nothing of Tintin and this is assuming that he is English
1. Chapter 1

THIS IS MY OWN INTERPERATATION OF TINTIN THIS ISN'T A LOVE STORY

THIS IS TINTIN HELPING A WOMAN UNDERSTAND HER HUSBAND'S ACTIONS - NOT TRYING TO FLIRT WITH HER FOR ANYBODY WHO ASSUMES THIS

Chapter 1

The girl was barely eighteen, her dark brown hair being whipped around her face in the sea wind. The cold chilled her to the bone, despite being wrapped up in a coat and dress. The dock behind her was filled with lifeless ships but empty of witnesses. But that was the least of her worries – for there were men before her with guns, aiming at her, waiting for the right word to be commanded. They wanted answers.

"Where is it?"

"I don't know."

"You're a crap liar," he stated plainly. "Give it to me."

After a pause of realization, she shook her head. "You'll have to shoot me first."

The man also stopped, but chuckled at her bravery. "If I do that I'll just have a dead body to clear up and nothing to show for it. I won't ask again."

"No."

Although he couldn't be seen, his frown could be felt a mile away. His men cringed in the presence of it. "Perhaps I wasn't clear, Miss Belle: I can't kill you, but that doesn't mean that I'm unable to cause pain. You give me the device and I'll let you go home in one piece."

For a moment she considered it – going back to her apartment without any trouble. All of this mess put behind her like some bad dream. But she had gone too far; this was far bigger than just her safety. She was scared, but in the end there was only ever one option.

"You're mistaken, Mr Pincer, I know _exactly_ what you mean and I wouldn't give you this while there was still breath in this body!" she turned to the black waters beneath her feet, she watched the choppy river Thames entice her into its embrace. She was scared, but she didn't care.

She jumped.

Snowy had been given a tasty meat treat from master Tintin. He loved chewing on the gristly jelly and could continue for hours. It couldn't last, in the busy and dangerous madness of the street, his master stepped across the cobbles to purchase a souvenir from the vendor who oddly smelt of rotten fish. Snowy didn't care much for what his master was doing, he focussed fully on the treat.

But then – a new smell wafted over to him.

At first he took no notice, new smells came over Snowy all the time after all. Then it became stronger and more… unusual. He investigated with his finely tuned nose and thought hard.

It smelled of the dirty Thames water… human blood and sweat… and something else, feminine sweet and womanly.

And fear.

Snowy knew that smell meant trouble that needs help rather than trouble that needs causing and he had to help. He abandoned his treat, knowing that he would get back to it and smelled harder for where the woman-girl-human was. He found her – she was over the bridge and near the wooden planks of the docks.

He began running instinctively towards the strong smell, and ran down the road into the docks, dodging the long legs of people as he ran. He was tired once there, and could hear master-friend Tintin calling him. But the human woman was under the cold, wet water and was dying. Snowy barked as loud as he could; he barked and barked and barked. Master-friend heard him and ran knowing the possible danger, but not knowing that Snowy was trying to drag the girl out of the water alone.

Once he came and saw the danger, he barked too. "Help!" Tintin called. "Help, there's a woman here!"

He dragged her out of the water; she was nearing unconsciousness, but managed to hand him a metal canister. The girl then tried to speak, only managing to say two words before everything went black:

"Save yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When the girl opened her eyes, everything was a blur, the world before her merging into a white mess. Dark shapes moved around her, looked at her eyes and felt her skin, checking for a pulse and other vital signs. They spoke excitedly as her eyes adjusted to the brightness around her, the ringing in her ears slowed and vanished, and her breathing became less laboured. She regained consciousness over long hours of bright lights and dark voids, and eventually she woke to the sight of a boy.

He was young, like her, twenty or so in age, red quiff of hair and a light brown coat. She remembered him from the river – the first friendly face she had seen in days. That was probably why she gave him the canister, because of looks alone; how could she of been so selfish to involve someone who didn't know anything about the situation? She wondered about where Mr Pincer was... whether he had heard that she was still alive.

"Thank you." She said eager to leave the hospital. Looking forward to the first head start she had against Pincer.

"Don't thank me – thank Snowy, he found you. Can you answer some questions miss...?"

The girl looked him over, "Ingrid. Ingrid Read. And it depends on what you want to ask, Mr..."

"Tintin, and only what you expect." He pulled out the canister and showed it to her, not daring to let it go. "I can't open this, so why did you give it to me?"

She shuffled in her hospital bed, not sure how to proceed without this stranger getting hurt. "You can't open it because it doesn't belong to you. I gave it to you because you looked familiar; of course I was mistaken. We've never met, have we?"

"Not personally but I've been in the news several times."

That struck fear into her – _the_ Tintin? He wouldn't be able to walk away from this; he was doomed because of his damned curiosity, if he would walk away he had a chance. The girl tried to think of a way to force him out of this and she was disheartened to think of none. She felt her palms sweat with shame and anxiety. "Give it to me, please."

"Wait, you've got to tell me more, there could be a story-"

"I don't care about your story! Give it to me!" Fear crept into her voice unawares; she felt her hand shake as she held it out; hoping strongly that he would listen to her pleas.

Tintin read this and he looked into her green eyes. "What are you afraid of?"

Ingrid closed her hand and turned away, looking out of the window rather than his face. She knew that if she did look at him, she would talk: and having her name in the papers was the last thing she needed. "I don't need you to get involved. You don't want to do this – give it to me, please. You have to give it back to me if you want to live."

"Who's after you?" he asked instead. "Why would my life be in danger if I helped you?"

"Get out of England, Mr Tintin." She warned darkly, bitterness of her own inevitable doom entering her voice. "Give me the canister and get out while you still can."

"Who is after you, Miss Read?"

She wanted to tell him everything, she wondered if he could really help her but then she realised how stupid it would be. She was a dead woman, and he would also be a dead man if Pincer knew who he was. Ingrid sighed in self pity.

"Nobody. If you won't give me it then you won't last the week in London – leave this story alone, Mr Tintin. If you value your life don't follow me." Ingrid then stopped speaking despite the questions he threw at her. She refused to talk to him and only minutes passed before he eventually gave up with the promise:

"Whatever's after you I'll try to find it and stop it, Miss Read. Even if you're too scared to admit it."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Tintin stared at the canister, trying to think.

It was a steel shell, which assumed that the contents deserved protecting against the elements and maybe a few bullets. That also meant the person who wanted the object protected spared no expense, which meant that a rich person owned the object within. It had no screw, or bolts, or even a button to make the canister open; in fact it was completely stainless. So how did it get inside, whatever it was? He knocked it against his desk again - in reply the inside clicked against the shell, taunting him and his inability to get to it. There were few times when Tintin didn't know what to do, and this time was one of those rarities.

Ingrid Read was definitely hiding something, she was scared and shaken. She insisted that he left England; but the entire reason he came was to find a story, he never walked away from one yet and today was no exception. With no other option, he decided to dig deep in recent affairs that he might of missed – he used his contacts at Interpol, Thomson and Thomson to help him.

They didn't need to look far.

"... You say that she's a dark brown haired woman with green eyes, oval face and pale skin? From the southern England area, you assume from her accent? Why I think that you've found the missing Poart girl!" the phone line crackled.

Tintin answered immediately. "She said her name was Ingrid Read."

"Obviously a fake, Tintin, your description matches her perfectly."

"Can you tell me about her?"

"Well she was the daughter of the Ronald Poart, owner of a few sugar factories in Columbia. The company made thousands in the industry and has flourished ever since, of course that was up until the fire..."

"What fire?"

The telephone crackled again as Thomson continued. "It was assumed to be an accident at first, house fires are common now that wood is in fashion. Actually, thinking about it a fine pine desk is what we need, or maybe oak for this drab office, Thomson, what do you think?"

"Thomson this is important. Lives are at risk!"

"Oh? Well the fiancée of the Poart girl – Fisher I think he was named - called the police days before claiming he was being followed by an unknown masked man. We obviously made it our highest priority to keep this assailant away from Mr Fisher."

"You never found him, I assume?"

Paper rustled at the end of the line as Thomson picked up the file. "On the contrary, we found him and he confessed that he was trying to rob Fisher's house. Which we thought was unusual but it saved us a lot of time; anyway, Miss Poart went to stay with Mr Fisher for a few days. In which time a fire broke out and both were presumed dead as well as the four servants."

"When did all this happen?"

"About four months ago in Yorkshire. I'm afraid nobody knows exactly what happened that night except Miss Poart, and it seems that the cold case will be reopened now that we've found her. I'm afraid that's all we can give you Tintin."

"Thank you, Thomson." Tintin hung up the phone.

"What does it mean, Snowy? Why she is here, in London?" There was so much that he didn't know, far too much that needed to be found out. Poart, Read or whatever her name was, she needed to give him answers. He couldn't let the story lie, or let the woman die over something he didn't understand.

He began pacing – pondering what move to make next. "Money had to be involved in this," he concluded, "but why attempt to kill the daughter and her fiancée rather than her father, some sort of warning? It just doesn't make sense. Come on, Snowy, we need to talk to Mr Poart."

The Poart estate was a huge expanse of fifty acres of beautifully preserved landscape and a fine Georgian manor house. It was so picturesque that every person of every status who looked upon it did so with awe. The manor was large, as can be expected, but not so huge that it was unreasonable for a man such as Poart and his trustworthy servants to live in. Ever since the head of the house became a widow, he wanted to preserve the meadows surrounding his home like the fond memories he spent with his dear wife. He found it a deep shame that no more of his family would enjoy the sights he had on the grounds that no grandchildren would pick exquisite wildflowers or dance in the long grass.

Tintin was invited inside the home and was lead to Mr Poart, who sat admiring his wide garden. He didn't enjoy the reporter's presence in his paradise. "No need to make tea, Polly, Mr Tintin won't stay long."

The serving girl nodded and left the men alone.

"My daughter is dead, Mr Tintin and I don't care what you ask me. She wasn't drunk, an adulterer or secretly a man as some men with your ambitions would believe. Nobody would want her killed and she wasn't connected to my business self in any way. I've heard your name and... Inventive adventures in the papers. I don't believe any of it, but I do enjoy others talking of your fake bravery. Now if you excuse me-"

"Mr Poart – tell me about your daughter."

"Bah!" he exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table. "Many have begun with such questions and ended with disappointment. My daughter was a good girl – she did as I asked when I asked it and loved me more than anything. We barely argued and I wouldn't let her come to any danger in any way. Does that answer your questions, Mr Tintin?"

The reporter sat opposite the old man; annoyed by his comments against questions he hadn't even asked yet but keeping his anger at bay. He looked into his eyes and said only the truth, for lies would only anger the man further and cause pain that wasn't necessary. "I met your daughter yesterday in Whitechapel hospital. She was found in the river Thames, as surely you've heard if you've heard of me and my articles. She's alive, sir, but afraid of something that made her lie to you and run across half of England. All I want to do is find out the truth – to do that, I need your help."

From the first words that escaped his lips, the wealthy old man was entranced. He didn't want to believe this lie but he did with a ferocity that only a caring father could possess. He didn't want to be taken advantage of because of grief or age, but the belief of his daughter being alive was far too powerful. Mr Poart did something that he hadn't intended to do that day – tell the truth.

"Anne was such a good girl," he began, his voice cracking from the emotion in his eyes. "She would see me every day and spend time with me that most daughters don't do to their old man. I didn't think she'd ever need to leave me, but then she grew up. Anne met George Fisher about a year ago at a friend's party. I didn't think she loved him until she told me, Anne was sensible, but I didn't think marriage would occur so soon.

"He asked her the twenty fourth of January this year; I was so overwhelmed that my daughter, my little Anne, was to be married. She's barely twenty, but I couldn't deny the happiness we both felt about the situation. But something happened to George – he became disorientated, worried about something that couldn't be consoled. Anne told me, she said that he was scared even though he wouldn't admit it. My first reaction was that he'd lost the dowry foolishly on a poker game of some sort; but when I pulled strings to check his account, he wasn't in any debt. Every penny was accounted for; it made no sense to me."

Tintin interrupted. "Then the paranoia made him think that somebody was following him."

"Indeed," Mr Poart agreed, "You've done your research, I see. Even after the alleged burglar was caught, George still insisted he was being followed. I didn't believe him – but the fire proved me wrong. Three months ago my daughter was killed in the blaze, Mr Tintin, if she lives, and you tell the truth then tell her that I wish to see her again. If you dare return here with no such proof, I shall go to the police with harassment charges on your head."

Tintin nodded understandably. He now knew more – and the woman couldn't deny him answers now. He left the man alone to ponder at the possibility of the past being repeated and a dead woman to live again.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

He returned home with his dog trotting faithfully behind, now thinking of the conversation he had with the mourning aristocrat. Tintin knew that the woman was hiding so much and she was the key to this story. All that was needed was a few words with her and he would be able to solve it all, he was certain of it. As he opened the door, a familiar click came into ear shot.

Tintin stared at her, standing as most do, with a gun aimed at him. But she wasn't accurate with the weapon; she shook with the nervousness of someone who wasn't ready to hold an armed weapon. One handed, inexperienced – she was going to hurt herself if not careful, perhaps Tintin if lucky.

"Why couldn't you just give me the goddamn canister?"

"Because you're in something too deep," Tintin said, raising his arms in surrender, "an idiot could work that out."

"I don't care what you say, Mr Tintin – I need that canister back and I'll get it with or without your help." She held the gun higher, aiming for his head. She shook harder through the fear of the idea of her killing a man, Tintin no less.

"Put the gun down, Anne."

She flinched at the name, lowering the gun slightly in suprise. "How did you…?" the woman corrected herself and raised it again. "Give me the canister or I'll shoot."

He raised his arms above his head. "I don't have it, Miss Poart."

"What? Are you mad, they'll kill you if you've lost it! I'll kill you myself if you've been so stupid." Her confidence rising, she walked over to the window, checking for anybody who might be watching the kid's apartment. A glint of red light passed her vision.

"Down!" she shouted as bullets flew inches over her head; the apartment burst into flashes of white bangs and loud shots exploded cushions into a rain of feathers. Wall and window shards exploded, cracked and fell down, smashing into smaller ones and cutting the beings lying on the floor, their heads being protected by their paws. The gun was away from the hands of the girl and she heard the very loud gunshots deafen her; the world had become a blur of deafening fire and noise.

The terror of being shot at shook her to the core, ice shooting up her spine as she realised. She was scrunched as small as possible, protecting herself from the shots above her head and the debris cascading upon her.

After thirty seconds of constant noise and bullets, the world was silent.

Once a minute had gone by, she tried to stand but stumbled, confused and disorientated. The distant voice of a man whispered to her something hostile, but she couldn't quite hear. She was far too disorientated to fight back; he dragged her out of the apartment and onto the street, too weak to cause any damage.

"Come on!" she heard from his lips.

Consciousness returned to her eventually and she attempted to fight; managing to knocking down one of the men who held her and sprinting away as fast as her legs would allow. She reached the corner of the eerily quiet street before she saw the boy, running after another man down the road. The woman couldn't outrun the men behind her, and she screamed to the boy.

He turned to watch – his mouth wide. The man behind her then pressed a strong smelling cloth onto her face, the intoxicating smell forcing her into a deep, deep sleep.

Anne woke to the sound of laughter and clapping. Her hands shackled in iron above her head and blood leaking from her wrists as the sharp metal cut her. She stank of sweat and blood in the dress she was in while she tried to rob Tintin. Then it all returned - the gunshots, the kidnapping and the missing metal canister. All was lost if the famous Tintin had kept his cool head.

"Clever," Mr Pincer said. "Very clever to try to kill yourself and the device, try to break it maybe? But it was all for nothing, I'm afraid, because right now we have your friend."

"No." She breathed.

"Oh yes," the man stood higher, success brimming from him. He bent down and whispered right into her ear. "Now you can tell me where to find the device – or I'll rip off his limbs."

Anne called his bluff and repeated louder. "No."

Mr Pincer's foul breath crept through the thick London air. "I'm tired of your games, girl. I'm sick of all this that you've done for your dead husband; I'm not playing anymore. You tell me where it is – or I kill the infamous Tintin. Can you live with that? Can you live knowing that you let a man die just for a silly little device?"

She looked at him, into his eyes and wished that he was lying as he often did. She never saw Tintin get caught, so maybe he did get away. In answer to him, she spat him in the eye.

Repulsed, Pincer stumbled backwards, wiping the saliva away. His bodyguard took it upon himself to hit Anne several times.

Once around the face with the butt of his gun causing her to see splinters of light and dark; then a sharp kick in the ribs, this caused incredible pain and nausea, tears instantly coming to her eyes. Finally he used his gigantic hand to smack her around the cheek and this caused agony beyond all she had felt, unconsciousness loomed due to the strength of the blow.

"Idiot!" Mr Pincer exclaimed angrily. "Now she can't answer anything."

"Sorry, boss, I got carried away."

"You'll have plenty of time for that when we talk to the kid. We'll have to come back later now, when she wakes up." Mr Pincer led the way out of the cell, his blundering giant following behind.

Guilt came heavy on Anne; she knew that she had condemned Tintin to a terrible fate, one that he might die from. If only he'd listened; if only he'd just given the canister back! There was hope, though; if he had lost it then Pincer would leave them alone. But probably kill them.

She wasn't religious, but she did pray for Tintin as she became unconscious again.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The situation was dire – Tintin was, yet again, captured by an unknown enemy. All he knew was that he was driven here in a very dark van with a gag and cord around his wrists. When he woke up from the blow to his head, he still remained in the car to only be dragged off through an abandoned warehouse; he ended up tied tightly to a long pole reaching to the ceiling. He realised that he could've been anywhere in London, perhaps further in the midlands, for all he knew. He was unarmed, without Snowy and very much alone in the damp cell.

The door opened and a tall man entered.

He had a straight back, poise in his step and calculating eyes. He was aware of everything and nothing; he could estimate any sort of complicated sum using only his highly intelligent brain. He wore rich silvery clothes and black leather shoes, both were hardly tarnished by the dirt of the metal walls and floor. Compared to the mere man that was Tintin, the man was a spectacular essence of perfection.

Following him was a hugely muscled man with tattoos etched onto his arms. He was not smart, but in a boxing fight he could work out how a lightweight would dance and how a heavyweight would slug. The man walked over and held Tintin's skull in his paws, he showed the boy's face to his master.

"I feel that I should apologise, Tintin, on behalf of Miss Poart." He began, looking over him, predicting his inevitable moves against the predator, down onto his prey. "For you see – using a courier such as yourself is sloppy work, this device is far too important to deal with commoners. Of course I didn't take any chances and you were tracked from the moment you stepped outside that hospital, 10:27; to the Poart estate, 11:46; to the very second you entered your apartment, 12:32."

Tintin was aware of his clever use of intimidation – he was very tempted, but was not taken by his quiet threats. He was aware of the gag being dampened by his saliva and didn't make any noise to amuse the kidnapper.

"I admit that I had no clue that Miss Poart was also present in your mediocre apartment. I assumed that she had organised a drop with you as a clever woman would. However she's not exactly smart, now is she?" Mr Pincer smiled; it was a grin that could turn the most evil of men sour. "So, once you tell me what you did with the device then maybe I'll let you both go unharmed."

The bodyguard then snatched off the wet gag to allow the prisoner to agree to the very simple terms.

"I don't understand – you go through all this trouble for a little canister? What's inside, what's so important that you'd be willing to kill for it?" Tintin locked his eyes on Pincer, daring him to tell the truth.

Mr Pincer was impressed with the boy, he had heard from past associates of how he blew entire drug operations and arms deals out of the water with his honeyed words. He restored jewels, family treasure; a living legend in international crime fighting. How amusing that he would attempt such a tedious trick on Pincer? "You don't think I've heard of you, Tintin? You think that I just thought I'd stick you in here and hope for the best like some of my business partners have? I know of your tales and I will not make the mistake of underestimating you, for you are more trouble than worth.

"Now tell me where you put it – or I'll make sure that Miss Poart never sees the light of day again."

Tintin thought hard of a solution; something new was needed to fool the master trickster. He had approximately ten seconds to answer to avoid arousing suspicion; in less than six he had an answer. It was not a victory but he knew it would give him a chance, a slight chance, but an opportunity nevertheless. For moments he contemplated how to play his hand, for he knew that the very observant man would try to exploit his moves for his own.

"You won't hurt Miss Poart?

Pincer nodded carefully.

"I was told to leave it under a bench outside Westminster Abby. Then give her train tickets from London to Belgium."

Pincer focused entirely on Tintin's innocent face. He concentrated on the rate of breathing, the sweat he leaked and his heartbeat continuing to thud at a steady pace. His pupils seemed true enough; he didn't avoid the gaze Pincer constantly stabbed at him. "That's better." Pincer sneered.

He headed to the door, pausing when he called to the guards outside: "Guard them until I return – If I have the device release the girl, if not, shoot them both."

Tintin cried out to them. "You said that we'd be freed if I told you!"

"Correction," he informed Tintin. "I said that I might let you both go. I only gave my true word that Miss Poart would be freed and she shall if you told me true. I don't wish to travel to Westminster to find myself being fooled for a second time. Now unless you want to be shot now, then you'll silence your complaints. Perhaps this will be a lesson to you: never trust a man you've stolen from."

With that he left Tintin alone in the dim light of only a small candle.

Snowy had tracked his master through big-place-London and had run through rough-wind and falling-water. He was tired, cold and wet but he knew that he was very close, his friend-master-Tintin was nearby he had to be! He raised his nose into the air, sniffing especially for the familiar smell of his friend-master.

Bad men took Tintin soon after Miss Poart was taken, both were stashed in different cars and both drove at full speed. The van that took Tintin was far too fast for the white terrier to follow all the way, but he knew that his nose wouldn't fail him just yet over the thick city smog. He continued to run down the dark wet streets, aware of the other humans staring at the dog spiriting away in no particular direction, until he arrived at a large-wood-keeping-warehouse. He felt dirty from the mud, but didn't mind it much as long as he found Tintin – then he would have a bubble-fun-splashy-bath.

He crept around the back of the building, recognising the green-bad-kidnap car that Tintin was shoved in. A small hole in the brickwork was just large enough for him to squeeze into, his master's scent even stronger as he did so. Snowy sniffed the ground, which had now turned wooden – left, he was left and the dog ran the way his nose commanded him. Another crossroads laid before him and after smelling again, discovered strangers heading toward him. Snowy hid underneath some pipes, watching for the men to see him and for the opportunity to attack made itself clear.

"… How long d'ya think he'll be?" One asked, loosely holding his rifle in his hands.

"A few hours – he said the kid'll be dead no matter wat." The other, more illiterate man replied, strapping his gun to his back.

"Why's he still alive den?"

"The big guy said that he likes to test guys, see wat they do when alone."

"Yeah but it's Tintin, mate. He gives him a chance to and he'll completely kill us, we'll be locked up. No second chance after that – this kid's vicious with guys like us."

"The kid's taken down whole goddamn drug joints - like that one in Cairo." The man whispered, like the fact was a secret not supposed to be uttered.

"That was insane, mate, a guy I know was in that and they all got busted for life…"

Their voices faded away down the corridor and the bad-stranger-gunmen turned a corner, speaking still of the illustrious boy reporter. Snowy picked up a smell again and ran to the right, excited that he was so close.

He pointed his nose upwards for the thousandth; ham was being cooked upstairs, sweat and blood was nearby, salt and vinegar was also present, there was something else… something familiar. It had to be master Tintin!

Snowy scratched the surface of the metal door he was certain Tintin lay, wishing as he sometimes did that he had the hands to open the door. He instead snuck through a small hole near the locked door, eroded by time and rust. Nobody heard his entrance, only Tintin who was too relieved to see his partner alive and here.

"Good boy, Snowy!" he praised quietly, "Quickly, chew through these ropes, we need to find Miss Poart before they get back."

The taste of the ropes was horrible, but Snowy endured it like he always did so Tintin could get out. In a few quick chews and snarls, the ropes were torn and the boy reporter rubbed away the burning on his wrists. He rubbed his dog's ears in sincere gratitude; the feeling made Snowy's tongue fall out of his jaw.

"Come on," Tintin said, glancing at Snowy's collar. He stood, feeling his dead legs awkwardly bend without feeling. After he became used to his legs again, he tried to tug and turn the door handle but it was useless. He cursed at his bad luck, for there was no window that could possibly be used. Snowy then showed the small hole to his master; unfortunately it was far too small for a human to fit.

"Think," he told himself quietly, reading from the crates within the cell. "What do we have: rugs, fire, vodka and cigars…?"

The boy reporter recognised what they were, the mark on them that he investigated a while before. These weren't any expensive cigars; they were cigars of the Pharaoh. This was unusual, for all the crates were destroyed by the Egyptian police; Tintin quickly came to the conclusion that Pincer put them there to taunt Tintin in his apparent defeat.

It took him several minutes of incredibly fast thinking, but he had organised a diversion he was sure to work; he placed several rugs at the foot of the door. Then ripped a part off for himself to avoid suffocation; he then had to wait for the next patrol to pass, which he was sure wouldn't be a long wait. The men went past, discussing football and other tedious subjects. "Help!HelpH" Tintin shouted successfully trying to sound fearful. "Please, something – something's burning!"

He set the rugs alight, putting them out quickly afterwards so they would only smoke harmlessly. He then sat poised ready and waiting to attack above the men when the time needed, keeping his torn rug piece on his nose and mouth. Snowy stayed on the ground, looking towards the strangers, readying for the attack.

"We gotta open it; the boss'll kill us if he's dead. He told us he wanted to do it himself, 'member?" A loud squeak pierced Tintin and Snowy's ears as the goons turned the crank to open the cell door, the human managed resisted the urge to shout in pain, but Snowy dropped to the ground scratching his ears in incredible discomfort. The metal door opened inwards, they stepped through, completely unprepared for any attack.

Tintin jumped down on the first man's shoulders, forcing him down onto the ground and knocking him unconscious instantly. As his partner began to work out the unlikely situation – Tintin punched him with an iron fist in the genitalia region, causing the man to buckle down in intense pain, to finish him off, Tintin kicked him in the head.

Taking one of the two rifles, he escaped his cell and began sprinting down the many corridors and doors, with only his partner's nose to guide his way. He only hoped that the mysterious Poart girl was still alive and explain what exactly Tintin was thrown into.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Tintin ran through the warehouse as silently as he could, following Snowy's reliant nose towards Miss Poart. Through the many corridors he crept, although he counted a patrol of at least thirty of Pincer's goons, all heavily armed; against just him with a petty rifle. The odds of escaping alive were dangerously low, of escaping unharmed were impossible. He did as he always in these situations, avoiding fights where possible by stealth.

Snowy became excited in very little time, Tintin realised quickly that Miss Poart was close: extremely close.

His dog began scratching at a door to his right, whimpering as he did so; knowing that trouble was nearing before it even begun. Tintin turned the metal wheel that creaked loudly, he was concerned of distant guards hearing it; but the hope that she had to be on the other side and they could all escape was enough to make him open the cell.

Once inside he was dismayed at the sight of Anne: her once beautiful dark hair hung in sweaty locks, hiding her face from the world, the cream dress he last saw her in was stained with blood. Her wrists were torn and bleeding severely, if not treated, there were chances of blood poisoning or worse from the rusty metal bonds. The boy reporter was sure of this and quickly attempted to release the girl from the metal shackles.

However of his noble intentions – there was no way Tintin could possibly do this. He had no pins, lock-picks or any sort of skeleton key. It took him a minute to understand after checking all his usual hiding places; Pincer was thorough in his search. With no choice, he was forced to take the shackles which were still on the injured girl. He began attacking a pipe that was the only object holding Anne up.

Tintin heard goons approaching the door, investigating the commotion which disturbed them a short time ago. Panicking – he tugged harder and eventually he dislodged the reluctant pipe enough for Anne to collapse to the ground. The loud, definite noise created tension between the two men investigating the sound; they pointed their guns forward and aimed them into the cell.

They saw nothing – no girl or any sign of her. How or when she escaped they were unsure of, but knowing now of her disappearance caused them to sound the alarm. For the prisoners had escaped.

Tintin was already a few steps ahead of the confused guards; half carrying, half dragging the unconscious woman to an exit that Snowy had entered. He realised time was short and that the patrols he saw would group up together to make a much larger, deadlier formation. He continued to follow his guide dog through the corridors, hoping that they were close very soon; for all of their sakes.

Snowy stopped abruptly at the small brick hole he entered the warehouse in. He went through quite easily alone, the brick scratching him only a little. But Tintin and Anne couldn't possibly fit, even if they entered one at a time. The boy reporter couldn't spend time he didn't have formulating another scheme to create a larger escape route. Following intuition, he used his foot to dislodge bricks that were already on the brink of collapse.

He spent a minute doing this; kicking the wall down and trying to be as quiet as he could about it. Even though the guards were fully aware of their escape, they were yet to know their exact position in the large warehouse. Hence, they were searching the entire perimeter of the building in groups of three and four.

Tintin then heard one of the groups to his left – they spoke in whispers but he was fully aware of their presence. The hole he had expanded was still perhaps too small for both to fit, but it had to do. He shoved Anne through first, with more difficulty than he wanted or needed; for the men had already turned the corner.

Seeing him crawling and exposed caused them to open fire, shooting randomly as he snuck through the hole. The incredibly loud gunshots caused severe pain in his ears and made his body panic at the sound he knew too well; crawling as fast as he could it still wasn't enough. A lucky bullet had bounced around the brick and inevitably scraped a flesh wound on the intrepid Tintin. He felt the intense burning on his calf and he resisted the urge to scream in the intense pain he endured. This was supposed to be good, he was aware, for getting worse injuries or death was far more likely; but this didn't stop or quell the horrible fire up his leg or the bleeding that began to seep from the wound.

He emerged from the gunfight hissing in pain. They would follow but he had a few seconds head start at least; that was more than enough for them to find suitable cover. Tintin uttered a sound as he rose from the ground, leaning on an unbroken wall and looking for any way to escape the rest of the goons. He saw a green van, parked and disused; abandoned in the attempt to find the two prisoners.

Wondering if his luck was changing, he hobbled towards the van, resting his body and Anne's on his good leg. He quietly opened the unlocked car and placed Anne in the navigator's seat. Despite of the unlikely chances that the van was even open, the ignition key was not there; Tintin almost screamed when he did, but he knelt down and quickly hotwired the car. It took only a few moments of practiced hand movements, but the van burst into life and quietly chugged as the engine worked.

Tintin then took the wheel and tried to drive calmly away –

"There they are!" A man shouted loudly, rounding up at least ten of his fellow guards; the element of surprise long gone, Tintin forced his bleeding leg and the accelerator to full speed.

The world lit up with the sound of deadly bullets and gunshots. As he drove; glass behind him shattered and although goons before him tried to shoot the driver through the front glass, only splinters were made – the front mirror was made of bulletproof glass. Tintin sped right into the gate holding them with Pincer's men and destroyed it in an explosion of splintered wood and curses.

He went down a dirt track with nobody who could pursue him, for even if they managed to get in one of their cars and drive after him, Tintin would already be on the motorway that he saw dead ahead. As he joined the endless flow of cars and drivers, relief came over him – for they had escaped Pincer's clutches.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Anne woke in a soft bed. She was surprised by this, for she had thought that she would be standing in that cell, waiting for the news of Tintin's doom. Alas, this was not what she expected – a flicker of hope suggested the whole mess was a simple nightmare. Maybe George would come out of the bathroom and smile at her; maybe she would forget the horrid business forever.

But reality came crashing down on her when she saw the bandages on her wrists.

She wanted to cry; she wished to sit alone and cry at her incredible misfortune. But she could not, for she knew that worse had come her way. Despite the many things she thought could get her out of this mess – surrendering to the malevolent Pincer was not one of them. A tear managed to squeeze through her shield of misery, the memories that she had with her George dripped with it. It fell onto the pillow beside her cheek and was lost within the comfort of feathers.

Anne decided to get up – to carry on with her burden into the darkness until a light was revealed, she was hurt by the world mocking her misfortune. She sat up and observed where she was.

The sun bleached what was a white suite; the floor was cream carpet and the walls were carefully designed with gold borders of a white wall. The paint sparkled in the morning sun and the rich furniture within shone exotically. Beside the double bed she was sleeping in, she observed an end table which had a glass vase of wine-red tulips inside. An ensuite bathroom to her left – she had no clue as to how the boy reporter could possibly afford such a place, but Anne knew that she couldn't stay; for both their sakes.

She stood up and tried to look for her shoes, walking around barefoot on the carpet felt incredibly relaxing. But she resisted the urge to stop searching and enjoy herself in the lavish apartment – the further she was from Tintin the safer he would be.

"Going somewhere, are we?"

Anne slammed her head on the roof of a dresser she was searching under – she cursed under her breath and began rubbing her scalp. She stood from her knees and continued to search the room. "I am, actually. As far away from you as I can."

"What?" Tintin demanded, incredible annoyance boiling in his veins; he followed her around, limping from the wounds of the night before. Anne noticed – but didn't bring the matter up, for guilt came over her. "So I save your life, bring you here, treat your wounds and this is how you repay me?"

"Trust me; I'm doing you a favour." She glanced at him angrily and then returned to her search.

"Are you? I haven't got a clue what's happening actually. I've been beaten up, shot at and nearly killed by some maniac over some goddamn canister that I can't even open. Now I would really like what I'm into so I can try to sort this out."

"You don't want to sort this out, Tintin. Pincer is deadly serious – you should know he nearly had you killed! Your leg will take weeks to mend, next time you might not be so lucky. Look, I'll pay you all I can-"

"This isn't about money, Miss Poart! This is about the excitement of an adventure; and saving your ungrateful life."

"I can take care of myself."

Tintin laughed sarcastically. "Of course – I suppose that you were completely handling it when you were unconscious and bleeding severely in the warehouse, weren't you?"

Anne stopped and scowled – her eyes stabbing at Tintin to no avail, for although of his arrogance, he was right. She desperately needed his help, avoiding his gaze and subsequently abandoning her search for her shoes; she sank into an armchair, hands poised between her legs as she stared at her feet. "If I tell you what's going on you can decide yourself how dangerous this is, OK?"

Tintin nodded and began to listen vigorously.

Anne prepared herself to tell her tale, but she was unsure how to begin. "George was a good man," she whispered solemnly, almost trying to persuade Tintin of this truth. "He had morals and ethics that I never saw in another soul. I thought that we were made for each other. It's silly, isn't it, for such dreams never occur anymore do they?"

Tintin remained in silence, waiting for the woman to return to the point.

"He was a famous scientist, an excellent student in all three forms of biology, chemistry and physics. There was nobody like him that I knew of, that the scientific world knew of – a true genius. But he was a fool. He experimented the use of all three sciences; combining them together as one to create something new and unique. George was the first human to master one of the questions that every man has asked from the finding of it.

"The creation of metal - the ultimate source of the modern world made renewable for the rest of time. Can you imagine such power?"

Tintin did, each possibility creating hundreds more in his consideration.

The woman turned away from looking at the boy she spoke to – her mind being cast back and making her think of the beginning. Memories overwhelmed her of their courting; their love growing like a white rose, which she was given on her birthday by the man she loved dearly. "George realised too late that it would be too soon for the world to get such a modern gift, he tried to destroy it to protect the world from itself. Pincer had already learned of his success; how I don't know or even when, but he was relentless in finding the only prototype. He had George followed-"

"But one of them was caught." Tintin intervened, using what little knowledge he had to understand better the situation.

"Caught? He gave himself to the police to make them stop protecting George. The decoy served time in prison for hundreds of thousands of pounds I'm sure to make him vulnerable. But the fire – I never thought that…"

"Pincer would burn it down?" The boy reporter assumed.

"No – I don't know how the fire happened but it can't have been Pincer. He was chasing me in Cardiff, trying to capture me to find out how to use it or to gain leverage over George. He didn't get either; and I've been running from him ever since."

"So let me get this straight," Tintin stood and paced as he walked, this sometimes made him think better. "Your husband invented a device that could create metal, change it or what?"

"I don't know exactly how it works, but the general principal is that he can make any metal he wants out of water. Now imagine what Pincer would do with something like that?"

"Anything, I'm sure. So why are you still alive?"

Anne smiled for the first time in front of Tintin – he found it pretty rather than her usual scowling or frowning; even though it was an ironic gesture. "Because that canister is impossible to open without me, I'm the only one who knows how to do it."

"Then why keep it? Why continue running if your life is obviously in danger?"

At this Anne looked at the boy with such grief as she had ever felt these last months, it burned in her bones and struck a chord in her she hoped would never sound again. More salt-water dared to spring into her vision but she cast the weak tears away with the words she sounded: "Hours before the fire George called me into his study. He told me everything I told you, and said that he would be killed soon; he told me that if he couldn't – I had to destroy the device for good. That is why I do this, Mr Tintin, for George. For my George."

He could say nothing to that, seeing how she was moved by her own words proved that Miss Poart told the truth. Then he had a sudden revelation: Tintin merely stood watching her as he calculated this, until another question and confusion came to his mind: "You were found in the Thames unconscious and suffering from a moderate case of hypothermia, the doctors told me. You gave me that canister because you were confused and you lost all judgement and reasoning; you said for me to 'save yourself'. You were disorientated and hallucinating due to the cold - you thought I was George, didn't you?"

Anne felt her heart ache at the very mention of the name as it always did. She made a mistake and she had betrayed her late husband in her confusion – she nodded slightly in her shame. She couldn't say any words.

"You had that canister on you when you nearly drowned: so why didn't all the Thames turn to gold?"

Anne remembered George's words in her mind and repeated them aloud. "Because the device cannot work in contaminated water or within the canister: the Thames is a filthy river and has been since before Queen Victoria's reign. Salt water is also too contaminated."

"Once Pincer takes that canister to a freshwater spring… there'll be no more water in the world that's drinkable. Millions would die over this."

"If I stayed with him then I would've been tortured." There was no emotion in her voice while she stated this, for it would've happened without Tintin. "Then when I opened the canister, he would've killed me. The world would've suffered a drought by now while Pincer makes a fortune," Anne spat. "These are the stakes, Tintin. This is what I've been fighting against for months, an incredible army that all want to make the world die of thirst."

"We have to destroy it." Tintin concluded. "But how?"

"George and I tried to burn it and melt it, also crush it and waterlog it but nothing has worked." She sighed at the impossibility of her mission. "I think that we have to hide it from the world forever rather than actually destroy it."

"No. If we take that chance then this will happen all over again with someone else. I don't want to be partly responsible for deaths of millions due to our laziness. Like you said – the stakes are high." Tintin spoke true and Anne reluctantly agreed, their situation growing even direr by the moment.

Then - completely randomly – Tintin snapped his fingers as he came to a revelation. "Great snakes!" he exclaimed. "That's it!"

"What? What's it?"

"You say that the canister cannot melt or burn – but Pincer can!"

"I don't follow you," Anne said, fearing the boy had completely lost his senses.

"We take it to a place he cannot possibly find or retrieve it. We put it somewhere so impossible that it would be the hottest object on earth."

Then she began to understand his thinking. "You mean drop it into a volcano?"

Tintin nodded excitedly; he went into the lounge alongside Anne's room. She followed close behind, intrigued with the idea. "There are always some geographical books here somewhere…"

"But wait, if you mean we go abroad I can't just leave."

He found the bookcase and lifted a tome from the shelf. "Why not? This could be our only chance; he doesn't know where we are and won't come here first."

"I haven't got a passport – and why wouldn't he come here, you must've spent a fortune to rent this place."

With a sly smile, Tintin flipped through a third leather volume as he said: "Who says I rented this place?"

Anne gaped in shock, whispering in case the true owners were nearby, "We're trespassing!"

"No, I'm just borrowing the apartment for a few days. They won't mind they're friends of mine, went to Scotland for the weekend so it's alright, they just don't know I'm here." Tintin removed another book from the full shelf of tomes; this one was reasonably thick and named 'The Geographical Anomalies of Europe'.

"I'm not standing for this." Anne defended, crossing her arms.

"Then sit down. Look it's only for another night then we can go to – ahhah! That's it!" Tintin pointed down onto the text; the volume he looked through told him all the information he needed about European active volcanoes. One sprung from the page one he recognised the name of it from reports on the radio.

He began to read directly from the text: "'Hekla; described as the prison of Judus has been erupting on odd occasions for nearly nine hundred years. An Icelandic volcano whose lava runs deep under the Earth's crust and is an anomaly for many volcanologist. There are many pits of incredibly hot steam which are vents for the magma running beneath the Earth; in 1958 a research site was built to study both volcanic activity and the state of the steam vents. The vents are an attraction for many a scientist and tourist.' It's perfect!"

"No it's not – I don't have a passport, remember?" She sighed and sat on a loveseat. "Or a canister, for that matter."

Tintin thought for a moment and looked around. "Snowy!" he called, the dog came faithfully behind his master, a dog bone in his canines. His master slipped his hand underneath the dog's collar; the canister fell obediently in his hand. "We have the canister." He sighed; relieved his partner hadn't lost it in the chase.

"Brilliant; but I still can't go to Iceland." She nearly shouted in the boy's incompetence of hearing her words.

"Look – I can get you a passport, but you have to trust me. I don't know your real name and I don't know how you open the canister or why you haven't done it yet. There's so much that I don't know about you which you know of me." Tintin didn't beg for this information, he asked for it politely and firmly from the mysterious woman. He wanted to know who this woman truly was and the secrets she kept from him that should be shared.

She was mistakenly dumbfounded – to be considered untrustworthy was something she didn't expect to be referred to, but after thinking of what Tintin had been going through these past days... She was surprised that he still wished to help her despite the ungratefulness she had presented herself to him. Despite what her mind dictated her – Anne ignored it and decided to trust Tintin as he did to her.

"My name is Anne Poart, I was born in an Essex gutter but my family came across fame and fortune; I was brought up in Kensington. Under the circumstances we are both stuck in I think you can call me Anne. I haven't opened the canister because once I do – the entire object will not be closed in again and won't work while inside. It's safer to stay in there until we get to the volcano." This information she didn't expect to share with another – and as if from a private agreement, they both were silent and proceeded to sit in chairs opposite each other; this time as allies with a common goal.

"I don't think that we'll get to the volcano itself." Anne said, an idea taking hold of her. "I doubt even with your reputation we could get anywhere near without getting burned to death."

Tintin nodded in agreement – placing his hands together in great concentration. "Yes – however I think suffocation from the thick ash would occur before we got near the lava itself. But the steam pockets…"

"They would go straight to the magma underneath the crust – we could go there as tourists and drop it in!" The realisation made Anne smile widely, a light at the end of a dark tunnel illuminating her drab future. She saw Tintin grin as she did – their minds working as one.

"There's no time to lose!" Tintin cried, jumping from the seat and grabbing his beige coat from a varnished coat rack. "I'll get your passports and we'll get on the first plane to Iceland. You can stay here – I'll take the canister so you'll both be separated."

Although of this new alliance being forged – Anne was still hesitant with giving up the canister to Tintin. Trust was yet to be made with him and Tintin was quite aware of it. "It would be safer for both, Anne, if the canister stayed with someone other than you."

"Then we both go." She said decisively, placing the canister safely in a pocket. "I'm not going to sit around while you stroll around injured and vulnerable in… Where are we by the way?"

"Cardiff." Tintin told her, afterwards whistling for Snowy to join them – then he was bombarded with questions to do with the boring journey he had taken and the warehouse they were kept in. The partners left the room and locked the door as the dog trotted by his master. Tintin then limped nearly noticeably down the curled stairs and crossed the extravagant lobby.

The midday sun crept past the horizon of the Welsh city, the cold, moist air hitting the inhabitants with a firmness they knew well. The journalist and his companions followed the current of people and blended in. A task was given to them – now a plan was formed, to the relief of Anne.

She only hoped that Pincer was far away – and unaware of their intentions.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Once night fell and England was under the cover of darkness they were beneath the streets of Cardiff and roaming the Welsh black market. There was a strong smell of coal dust in the air, along with thick smog of cigarette smoke just above the river running through the city. Underneath the busy bridge leading to the docks they strode, improvised wood planks beneath the stone leading into the riverside market. A few poor beggars sat in the damp darkness, holding half empty bottles of rum and clutching onto lost dreams.

Tintin knew the destination they were headed – for all the best forged documents in Wales had to be made by one hand and one hand alone. It was lucky that the boy reporter was a long acquaintance with him and could get such papers at a cheaper price as his friend's usual. He looked to a shady building, made of mostly mouldy planks and shoddy placing of metal sheets that made a shallow attempt to protect from rain. Lights were inside and loud music and voices sang from within; they all approached with caution to the door.

Tintin then looked to his female partner – and knew that taking her into such a place would be a mistake. Her appearance was rich and regal in comparison with the place she now stood – she seemed not bothered with this and seemed oblivious to the fact. "Look," he began politely, attempting to tell her gently, "I'm going to go – in here, and get you some papers."

Anne smelled a rat – and it disgusted her. "I'm going too," she insisted, "If we're both together then it's less likely we'll be captured by Pincer."

Tintin laughed as he placed a thick hat over his eyes and unique haircut, "and more likely to get shot the way you're dressed. Look, trust me for once, OK? Pincer is nowhere near us and won't find us here."

"You don't know him-" she warned.

"I'll be ten minutes."

Tintin went into the black market pub ignoring the hissing from the woman; he blended into the crowd in moments. Snowy knew to stay outside during this solo visit to an old friend.

The shoddy tavern was filled with crooks and thieves, murderers and marauders alike. Most of them sang many aged pop songs as well drunkard rhymes that caught on slurred tongue; others sat in silence – contemplating ingenious robberies and such plans. The crippled barman looked at the new stranger with a fearsome glare of his one eye as he slammed a pint onto the bar table – and for a moment Tintin was surprised at the sudden change in management, for he was certain another controlled the pub when he last visited mere months ago.

After looking around the dark tables, he saw a man who sat alone in the corner of the large pub; a long sea pipe sending smoke trailing up onto the ceiling with the other cigarettes making a thin fog high into the air. Muddy black boots were upon the table next to a large pint of strong whiskey.

Tintin approached the table and sat opposite the man.

He did not move much, his hat shadowing his face and the dark corner he sat in obscuring all other parts of his body. "I think ye has the wrong table, friend."

"I doubt that – Captain Blackhauk."

The Captain removed his pipe as he believed his ears deceived; for surely this boy was not so foolish as to turn up here. He whispered his concern and also his relief as he leaned forward. "Tintin…"

"It's good to see you," Tintin greeted, taking the sea dog's thick hand in his. "How's the Prawn?"

"Aye, she good, seaworthy and still standing – thanks to ye." he said and then he allowed the light to illuminate his face.

He was ageless in appearance as his Irish accent and heritage; when Tintin had first met him it was at least a few years before in the Carrabin, he looked still the same. The Captain had a thick red beard that was at a reasonable length – not long enough for his food to be tangled and not short stubble; it gave him a very handsome look when among other fishermen. He could've been mistaken for any other man: except for his anchor tattoo on his cheek to the left of his left eyelid and a sea fearing snarl he wore at all times.

"Listen," Tintin spoke quietly to avoid suspicion as he leaned closer to the Captain. "I need some help with forged papers-"

"Sorry, my lad," Captain Blackhauk loudly bellowed, his eyes shifting to the men watching at the bar. "Ye have the wrong Cap'in. Best be movin' along now,"

Then – in a quieter voice he whispered to the reporter: "I'll see ye out back in five."

Tintin trusted him – and went out the back of the bar where the dustbins lay. They were filled to the top and overflowed with beer cans and bottles emptied of alcohol. He waited only a few moments before the sea Captain emerged from the Welsh pub.

"You stupid boy!" he cursed under his breath, his pipe shaking in his mouth. "You come 'ere, askin' for fake passports. Ye asking for a bullet in the brain!"

"What do you mean?" Tintin felt his heart thud against his chest, even before the answer was given.

"A bounty has been put on ye head." Captain Blackhauk shook his head. "The money's so high the only reason ye still breathes is because of the Prawn."

An eye for an eye, Tintin concluded. He felt slightly betrayed – for he thought that they were friends on other terms than a debt yet to be paid. "So it's for just my head?"

"Sort of, Tintin, ye head and some girl's… but both preferred alive." Blackhauk scratched his chin and left his pipe hanging out his lips.

Although he already knew – he asked anyway. "Who put it on?"

"A sickly man, rich and powerful in these parts; Mister Pincer's his name."

Tintin nodded. "How long do I have?"

"Two minutes, my friend, two short minutes and then ye has to run."

"We need to get to Iceland, how can we do it without you?"

The Captain took a moment, listening to the shouts of angry patrons. They were getting restless and impatient. Tintin was anxious to find Anne and run this quick time that was ticking slowly down. At last Blackhauk spoke aloud: "I don't like stowaways on my ship, but if they knew where to hide then I could get them to Iceland in… a few days."

Tintin was slow to follow at first – but after a wink from Blackhauk he caught on. He nodded his thanks sharp and quick; their odd friendship maintained. Then he ran.

It was a small ally that he passed through quickly to the dirt track he remembered walking only a few minutes earlier. It was there he saw her – and Anne was yelling.

There were three who were trying to gag and tie her up for delivery; but they all lacked the precision of Pincer's thugs. These were poor fishing folk – and the resistance they were used to were that of fish, not girls. They were winded with punches and kicks that blew them to the ground, but that didn't stop them completely. The most it did was anger them vigorously.

Anne hated the groping hands on her and screamed at them – Snowy too barked and growled at the strangers, biting at their heels. She landed a hard punch around one man's cheek and another's nose; she felt lucky and confident despite the ache in her fists, for this wasn't the first time she was forced to fight her own. The third she took down with a stray bottle over the head; but the others already were getting up, extremely annoyed by her sudden skill with fist-fighting.

Tintin was swift to intervene: he smacked one of the two standing with a hard elbow and then – even though he was winded and confused – the man swung wildly at the boy reporter. He ducked and rolled beneath the attempt, then shoved him into the river to their left. The other one was smarter; he managed to land a blow hard and sharp across Tintin's stomach; he buckled at the intense pain and cried out loud, his body convulsed instinctively. He wanted to get up from his crouch but the hit was hard and ribs were certainly bruised, he stayed holding his abdomen.

The man took a boxer's stance – obviously he had training in such things and held it well. Anne knew that running would be best, but to leave Tintin alone and vulnerable; after all he had done for her. She had to somehow beat the boxer alone.

He threw his fist towards her head; she ducked but didn't roll as Tintin had done and was struck by the second hit. This one had force she didn't expect – and it felt like a tonne of bricks had fallen upon the back of her neck. Anne was on the ground and her hands scraped on the dirt track. The man was now confident in her stead, his hands reached for her as they would a barrel of fish, he bent over – but she was smarter. She kicked the man's weakened legs and caused him to fall completely on his side, he smacked his head on the hard ground. The man cursed harshly at Anne while she pulled Tintin up and let him lean on her as she began to run.

Tintin regained a semi consciousness when he saw their brief fight, but now he was properly awake and aware of the situation. He was aware of bruised or even broken ribs causing pain that although he was used to, he wasn't able to pull away from Anne's precious support, using what voice he could maintain he did lead her though the Welsh docks.

He remembered where the Prawn was always docked when in England – he also knew what Blackhauk referred to when he spoke of stowaways. Whether both locations were still there, he could only hope; and with a small army of strong, angry fishermen on their tail, they had no choice.

Anne stumbled with both their weight as fast as she could, hearing the men cascading after them, terror creeping into her veins – for what was to stop a bullet from being fired or other weapons being used? She breathed heavily and tried to fight the fear but it seemed useless, she thought of how to run faster, faster, faster. She just let Tintin tug her one way, breathe a word or two and then grunt from the pain that blossomed when he spoke; she carried him the ways he wanted to go and also felt the dog at her heels; the animal was used to this rush unlike her.

She heard the noise of men still trudging after them, she dared not look back but knew somewhere in her mind that they were closely following them. The footsteps and voices were close, far too close. Anne panicked, ran quicker but this hurt Tintin bad and he cried out as his ribs burned with a wicked fury. She cursed at his noisy reaction but didn't dare stop, she couldn't they were so close! Fishermen and bounty hunters were coming after them and there was no time no time for them to hide; she looked to Tintin but he was clutching onto his abdomen with such ferocity that it almost seemed that he was inflicting more pain onto himself, he then pointed with the last of his strength towards a ship.

It was a good enough sign for Anne – she went as fast as she could, pulling Tintin along without causing him too much pain.

The Prawn, as it was named on the side of the ship, was a large varnished brown ship. The white sails remained tied to the mast, only one light coming from a porthole where voices could be heard. It was certainly tidy on the ship compared with the messy docks; by far the Prawn was the best looking ship there. It was hardly grand but it still had the aura of old fashions and sea dogs on the ocean with a bottle of rum and cutlasses close at hand, she could already smell the sea air on her tongue.

Anne went across the gangplank with Tintin slowly returning to his full concentration of the situation. She shoved him onto the poop deck and tried to duck under the shadow of it, whilst keeping him down. Men would be on patrol here, wouldn't they? Just waiting for opportunity to jump them both and take them hostage –

A gunshot was fired; it was a horrid sound and sharp to the ear, once one had gone others were exploding around them the déjà vu of what was happening made everything so much more terrifying. Anne got down immediately and her hand searched for Tintin as she looked over the edge of the port side of the boat. Looking for the source of the shots but all she saw was men coming this way with pistols and machine guns, knowing they were on the boat now. Why did she even think about looking at them? She looked to Tintin and all breath was taken from her.

He was on the wood of the boat, lying with his eyes barely open and watering with the extreme pain and from the sheer shock of the bullet that had luckily just scraped his arm – Tintin was bleeding excessively; Anne just sat in shock, he had been shot. His blood was coursing out of his arm and although only a flesh wound, they needed to move away from here. They were far too exposed.

Anne knew that they had to keep low; but where would they be able to hide? For a few hours they could hide in the deepest interior of the ship, that was the most that could be done for now. It was a plan – and it had to do.

She hushed Snowy who was whimpering at his master's side, confused at how he was now bleeding; he was beyond the point of unconsciousness but still wore the look of agony in his face. That haunted Anne, for she had vowed to keep him safe from such deadly attractions, but she ignored it as best she could as she dragged him along the deck.

More shots were fired wildly as she kept dragging the boy along, she kept as low as she could, she spent no time giving any dignity to Tintin, she just had one thought constantly revolving and repeating in her head – survive. Survive this and get to Iceland, outlast the cold and destroy the device forever. Survive life beyond; survive Pincer's anger.

The bullets flew and caught onto the wood of the ship, creating an explosion of splinters and a gaping hole where the men had missed and Anne felt some minor scratches where bullets swept past and fired splinters at her side; others caught the portholes that exploded with glass below deck. An unlucky few got close enough to Anne's head that she wanted to scream in terror, she wanted to scrunch up into a ball and wait for death. But she didn't – because she was now at the door to the interior and was turning it with all the effort she had; this made her grunt with the amount she had put into it. She loosened it, but it wasn't daring to open and she felt her muscles and head shake with fear for they were coming now – they realised what she was trying to do and they needed to catch up. Why would fishermen own guns, they wouldn't need them unless-

Anne felt the thought like a tonne of bricks on her shoulders, it didn't make her stop her turning the wheel but the thought remained which made her eyes widen. These weren't fishermen or even pirates – these were Pincer's men, goons who were given instructions. Panic ensued in Anne's veins as she considered: how did they find them? But she couldn't stop, not now, not now they were too close, so close to their goal! They needed to get to Iceland, destroy the device, get home and she wanted to be normal again have a life she could live without the hell of looking over her shoulder wherever she went.

Yes it was open!

Anne wasn't strong, but Tintin's small body was light enough for her to lift with ease onto his feet and drag him along the corridor. She put him down and locked the door again – making it harder with an extra turn she had put in and an abandoned mop locking the metal door firmly in place. Then she headed downwards.

Every set of stairs that went deeper into the depths of the ship she proceeded though; each door that provided an opportunity for sailors to find them she denied, because they needed to be the lowest of the low, right in the bottom of the ship. Anne saw that Tintin's whole arm was red with sticky blood, her analysis of the wound just being of the flesh was wrong, for it was still bleeding excessively and she wondered if an artery had been hit.

No – no she couldn't think like that.

Besides that couldn't be right; much more blood would be escaping if that were so. It was relieving but she was still concerned, of gangrene or blood poisoning or something worse; something horribly worse. Once she found some sort of bandage then he would be fine, he would be OK and get up and have a plan: a plan that they could both complete so that the goddamn device would be destroyed forever. This thought kept her going with anticipation of the future: Anne descended until there were no more stairs and she could hear the water lapping against both sides of the ship.

Only one more door then they would be safe – for a time.

This one was easier to open; once it was free she laid Tintin down in what seemed to be a storage room with the care of delicate glass. She rummaged in the store for any cloth that she could use as a temporary bandage – but to no avail, for all she found were fishing nets and empty barrels. She sat then facing Tintin and watching him intently. He was completely asleep, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open; he looked almost peaceful. This made Anne want to fall as well, but her will to watch over Tintin was stronger – for he had saved her twice now. She was barely getting used to saving another life from the jaws of death.

Anne was stubborn in her body's insistence to fall asleep and only began to rest once the ship had left the port. All the worries she had of this event trickled away as her energy was at last leaving her.

She thought of Tintin. She dreamed of her George.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_She stood with her back to the hotel, the silk that had been light on her shoulders fluttering in the evening breeze. The idyllic view of the Eiffel Tower a few miles in the distance caused the remaining breath in her body to be lost with the remainder of unhappiness. For this night she was not lonely, nobody was breathing over her shoulder or demanded anything from her; no blood was spilt and no rain fell like spikes on the skin._

_She was free._

"_Annie?" the voice caused her to freeze completely, only one person called her by that version of her name. Could it be?_

"_Annie, where are you?"_

_Her voice was barely a whisper, she dared not turn to see him for she was scared of what she would see or rather, not see, "George…?"_

"_Please, Anne, tell me where you are, I miss you."_

"_I'm here. I'm on the balcony." She called, louder and braver than she expected._

"_I know."_

_It wasn't George like she thought it would be – his voice cruel, sharp and face obscured and shadows around him, he spread towards her, reaching with black claws that closed around her mouth and nose. He cackled hysterically at her misfortune, at her choking slowly with the lack of air, in the Thames again where everything tasted of sewage and hate, all the life she had seeping away as if she was drowning in her own filth, only one name could be this thing, only one; then she was thrown into a stone wall._

_His name passed her lips before she wanted to say, on the ground and by his talons, hopelessness surrounded her as an infinite mound that was his foot was pressed against her face: "Pincer..."_

_She couldn't move – everything was still as she was lifted by his claws high into the air, another laugh consuming her. All was darkening around her – the happiness had vanished, the love she felt had evaporated, everything was lost, her George was gone and she shook uncontrollably. _

_She was trapped. She was alone._

_Alone!_

When Anne woke, daylight was seeping through the glass of the porthole. The store room at the bottom of the ship was light and crisp with the air of the sea. Sweat was on her brow, cold and clingy. Her first instinct was to cry at the nightmare that had corrupted her – but her strength did not wane. Pincer would not win this dangerous game. She still sat in the dirty hold, against old barrels and nets; regretting everything she had ever done to get to this hell she now lived in. She still smelled of sweat and fear; Anne lifted herself onto her elbows, her eyes squinting at the sun blinding her.

"Good morning."

She jumped out of her skin: "Why do you do that?" she demanded to Tintin.

"What can I say? It makes me laugh." He was looking better and smiling at the joke he had made of her; he had removed his shirt and wrapped it around his waist, the wound from last night dark red and clear in sight. His chest was toned and the lean body of a light-weight boxer – hidden beneath an unflattering sweater and slacks. The blood had dried from the bullet wound which Anne assumed was a good sign, but she couldn't hide the shock on her face when she saw the makeshift bandage.

Tintin saw her line of sight and those staring emerald eyes didn't make him uncomfortable. "I'm fine, Anne, thanks to you."

Anne shook her head as she remembered the night before, everything that had happened. "You were shot and I didn't clean it or do anything. Jesus, why didn't I do that? You could've bled to…" she choked on the end of her sentence as tears dared to flood her eyes again but she forced herself to not cry. That would be weakness.

"But I didn't," Tintin said calmly. "I cleaned the gunshot myself – luckily only a flesh wound, but nothing too serious. Don't panic, we don't need that, not now, OK?"

She already came to this conclusion when she saw it as a fresher, more graphic image; the very thought making her uneasy and guilty. "But what if it wasn't? If an artery or vein had been pierced then by now you would be… you would be-"

"Calm down," Tintin insisted, using his hands to emphasise the need for her to be calmer in their situation. "If you hadn't got me out of that gunfight I would be dead, or worse. It was brave of you to get us both out when you did; if you hadn't, then we would be with Pincer right now."

She couldn't think of a worse fate, so this did calm her, but not much. Her blood still pulsed with a chill that she still felt from the nightmare and sweat on her cold body. There was a long pause when they looked away from each other before she spoke the question that was reverberating through both their minds. "So what now?"

"We wait." Tintin said, nodding his head in agreement to his own words, "In a few days, we'll be close enough to Iceland to take a spare boat off the Prawn. Until then, there's nothing we can do – only… wait."

"And when we get there? How are we going to casually take this canister and destroy it? I've tried loads of times, it's impossible."

He took a moment, scratching Snowy behind the ears, the dog panted appreciatively. "The canister is, yes, but I've been thinking about this – and I think that we have to take it out the canister, whatever it is. Then throw it in the steam, to make sure."

Anne was silent and only nodded at this. She had grim thoughts penetrating her mind and it showed on her face; she looked to the only light coming through the single porthole and sighed.

After too much time for an answer had passed, Tintin's brow furrowed in concern when he asked: "What's wrong?"

Anne lifted her leg towards her chest and then hissed at the slight pain on her knee, then felt the same itch on her hands. She ignored them to seem as resistant to pain as Tintin, this wasn't difficult but all she thought of was that piercing gunshot noise in her mind; on the poop deck – he was bleeding and unconscious. Then she spoke words that had annoyed her since just a few days ago, just when she met the boy reporter. "I've never been so close before, to the end of this. This will be over in, what, a few days? I'm so stupid for not working this out sooner."

"You're not -"

"Then why does it have to take just you to show me what I needed to do months before? Why couldn't I figure this out myself than running across all of England on a stupid goose-chase? Tell me that, because I really want to know why I ran for so long in circles with Pincer two steps in front and behind." She demanded this sarcastically, her head falling back onto the wall of the ship in annoyance of herself.

Tintin had the answer immediately, but did not look in her eyes; he looked beyond into some distant area of the world. He felt a tiredness that he had been feeling for such a long time – it made him sometimes feel years older. "You were more scared than anyone else in the world; you didn't know whether the day you woke up would be the last one you ever lived, if you were lucky enough to wake at all. You felt as if the world was after you, that nobody cared for you and that with each face you saw, you wondered: what one would pull the trigger?

"Which one would tie the noose?

"Who would laugh at you, cry for you or be there at your funeral?"

It was as if he had delved into her very soul for these were the feelings she had every day of running: it made her terrified. But not because of the memories impounded in her head of what happened before a plan was even though of, it was how Tintin knew about the feelings and why he knew. He was as cursed as she was; he had been running for most of his life from things she couldn't even dream of.

He had felt it before – too many times. The silence that followed suffocated them both for long minutes.

"Thank you." Anne said at last, after too much time had seeped through their fingers, "It would've been easier to just… leave."

Tintin didn't answer; he still stared into nothing, completely lost among the many battles he had fought. Yet he had never truly won the war; or even got close to beating the unbeatable enemy.

"I never wanted you involved in this, Tintin. Because you were bound to get hurt – over something that was incredibly dangerous." Anne knew she had said these words over and over again for the past few days; but she supposed that justifying her lack of action last night would make her stop feeling so guilty. It didn't work, the guilt still hung over her head like a tonne of water, chilling her to the bone.

"I never listen; I never have. I only listen to my gut – and my gut says to stick with you right now." He smiled slightly; she returned one that he liked. He thought that she should smile more often, not that she had a reason to.

Another long pause spaced between them before curiosity made Anne ask a question she always wanted to ask the intrepid boy reporter. "So what makes a journalist, a boxer, a crime fighter and a genius puzzle solver?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know," she casually said, unsure of how to finish. "How did you become like…"

"This?" Tintin finished, his eyebrows rose and his arms went up as he presented himself to her. "Well it doesn't happen overnight, I can tell you that."

Anne kept herself composed despite the vague answer she wasn't looking for. "I'm sure. Well what about family? Friends? Come on, now, the famous boy reporter must have a lot of friends in high places."

This caught Tintin unawares, his eyes shifted and lowered; as did the mood painted on his face. "I haven't got anyone anymore. They all… went away."

"What happened?" she asked seriously - almost afraid of the answer.

Tintin thought; for he didn't know how to tell the tale. It was, after all, a big part in his life, although there was little to be told. "Everything I am is because of my friends; my childhood was rough; my parents didn't give a damn. I had nobody, just Snowy and a few guys I helped out doing odd jobs for my paper; until I found Haddock. When I found him, he was an alcoholic captain who had been mutinied and was always drunk when he had the chance to be sober. I didn't want to or need to trust him; but I helped him get back his honour and I got a friend unlike any other.

"I guess we were like brothers, the things we did together was unbelievable. You wouldn't believe it if I told you right now even a portion of what we had done together. I didn't have any kind of family and I eventually got him off the booze. Well most of it anyway, you can't have a Haddock without a bottle of whiskey nearby…" he smiled at the thought, but it quickly faded. "I should've known that it would all come back to bite us."

Anne watched him carefully with pitiful eyes.

"He died of liver cancer a year ago." he spoke the words with nothing. Like they didn't matter when – in reality – he was broken inside.

"I'm sorry." She said solemnly.

He laughed with no happiness in his mocking voice. "And the craziest thing about it? After all we did – all the gunshots we nearly died from, the times we nearly suffocated, drowned, beaten, the heatstroke we suffered from and he dies like that. He was a hero to so many and he died like a goddamn drunk."

"Don't say that-" Anne replied immediately.

"It's true."

"Only if you want it to be – if you think him so highly in life, don't be so disrespectful when he's dead." Anne leaned forward and saw the hurt in his eyes despite how he tried to hide it; he still did not see her face. Nor look beyond the space he was trapped in, he didn't want to surface from it. "When George died, I thought that he was reckless. He spent his life making such a stupid thing that would help nobody at the time, especially himself. Everything fell apart because of his pride."

She now looked into Tintin and tried to find him, tried to get him to speak as she was. Anne thought that talking about the man she loved and wanted to marry, he would do the same of Haddock his brother and best friend. "I blamed him." She said quietly and ashamedly. "It was all his fault, all this stupidity was his fault. But then I just stopped – I remembered how he looked at me, his smell and heartbeat against mine. He would never endanger me purposefully, he just wanted… to make lives better; to make a difference in the world.

"Is that such a bad thing?"

For the first time, Tintin saw her. Anne wasn't just some naïve girl running from many thugs intent on her husband's work and her blood. She was a woman who wanted freedom; she was a heartbroken lover who had her whole life taken away in a moment. She was as lost as he was when Haddock died – and still remained so because of the final part of him that she held like it was her own life.

To give it up would mean to surrender everything she had left of him – Tintin now understood that and the impossibility that she would ever give it up just for the ease of going back to a normal life.

He looked right into those big beautiful emerald eyes, although there was a weight of Haddock's memory still on him, all was put on hold because they both needed help. He needed to finish this case for both of them and thousands of others. He leaned forward so they were nose to nose, his warm breath on her skin, his eyes fixated on hers. "Your husband sounded very brave, you are too, Anne. We _can_ do this; we can end this for him."

She left no resistance now for tears and let them flow with ease; for she no longer felt compelled to seem brave, because George wouldn't care about her courage – only for her to perform his last request as a dead man; as her lover. Her voice didn't break, but water fell down her cheeks as she agreed:

"For George; for Haddock."

An hour or two of small talk, reminiscence and silence left them both to the point of extreme boredom. The sun was now higher into the bright blue sky – the unusually clear weather making the pair a little more cheerful. Snowy was the main form of entertainment and they switched between playing and petting the pooch. It kept him amused but the humans were eventually tired of that as well – Anne was the first to make a stand.

"I'm going to find some food and water." She announced, beginning to stand.

"What are you doing?" Tintin demanded, pulling her back down to sit again; he ignored the fire in his left side. His other hand was automatic in protecting the gunshot but he tried to ignore it. "If you go out there, we'll be sure to be seen."

"But I'm hungry – when's the next time do you think we'll eat? Have a drink? Next week at some point? If we survive that long…" She looked at the hand covering his wound. "You need your strength."

To that, Tintin had no answer, so let her stand again; this time joining her.

"No way-"

"If I go with you then the canister will be more safe and we can get there quicker without being seen." Tintin insisted, limping slightly as he stepped forward to the door. Anne blocked his way before he could pass her.

"I'm not letting you do this – you can barely walk, let alone sneak around a boat full of pirates; armed pirates." Her second point she made clearer by gripping onto his arm and hissing the words in his face; and she did not let go.

"They aren't pirates, they're fishermen and we won't need to sneak around because the place I'm thinking of isn't anywhere near the upper deck-"

"Then let me go alone; you can look after the canister while I have a look around."

"That's even more dangerous." Tintin retaliated; "you're not exactly in the fittest shape in the world either, you know."

Anne tilted her head slightly to the right and her eyes fell on the wound again briefly. "We both know that's not true. I just need something to eat and drink and I'll be fine; you need it more than me. Besides–" she looked again. "I owe you still."

At this – Tintin knew he was defeated and she was too stubborn to let him go, so had no resistance when Anne lowered him back onto the floor of the store room, she threw the canister to him and he caught it expertly.

He looked at it, observing the simplicity of it. The cylinder rounded at the edges with something clearly inside by the sound of it but impossible to get to. He turned it over and over in his hands; "How do you know I won't just take this to Pincer? Get the reward which will suit me for life?"

Anne looked sternly at him with her hands on the crank, ready to venture into certain danger; she spat the words at him below. "Because he'll kill you if he gets another chance; and that tiny device is capable of dehydrating the lives of so many. You're not like that."

"Am I?"

She took a moment to think about this, the trust she had for him was beyond mere friends. He had saved her life, so she had for him; it was a bond that went as deep as the raw nature of survival within humans. "No. You're not."

Tintin watched her carefully for another minute, waiting until she was just about to leave in her search for food. "Go to your left, last door on the right hand side, you can't miss it." She nodded and was interrupted again by his voice. "And Anne?"

Anne didn't turn all the way, but cocked her head slightly so he could only see one side of her face.

"Get me a sandwich I'm starved."

Anne tried not to smile and closed the door behind her.

She saw nobody coming down the corridor in the distance, but took no chances – she held a stance behind an ancient wooden wall, hoping that it wouldn't creak as old ships did under her weight. She concentrated entirely on what she could hear; the faint voices of men on higher decks, seagulls further away but still cawing sharply enough for her to hear, but nothing more. All was silent here.

Anne took this rare chance to move – and move fast.

She remembered Tintin's words: go left and then to the last door on the right hand side, so left she went, creeping down the corridor and then stopping at the corner. Her ears detected nothing but she stayed a few moments longer, listening intently for anything that might be of use. There were no noises of any kind – even her breathing was loud compared with the silence down at the bottom of the boat.

Anne went right as Tintin had instructed and saw only one door at the very end. There were others to both sides of the corridor but only one out of them was wide open. Light shone from the interior and she could only hope that nobody was inside to give her a stowaway's welcome. She held her breath, looking the other way and seeing only the steps that lead to the upper decks of the Prawn. She remembered tumbling down them when escaping from the bullets last night – the thought sent chills up her bones.

She was careful with her feet, placing them only where the wood seemed strongest so it wouldn't creak loudly to alert her presence. She was halfway to the place where food was kept and she had no idea of how to get past this enemy without alerting him.

A loud creak erupted from the floorboards; everything paused as she waited for the man to emerge and find her. She felt her silent breath rasp and quicken as she panicked – all this was for nothing because of her clumsiness. Why did she think that this was even possible?

A minute passed: sixty seconds of Anne frozen, waiting for the abrupt end of this dumb mission because she was hungry. It was a long time – a far too long time for someone to not get up and investigate the noise and the lack of crew members who could've made the sound.

Slowly Anne crept forward, wondering if she had dodged a bullet, wondering if nobody actually heard her and she was fearful of ghosts.

Relief washed over her gratefully as she at last reached the open door and when peering inside, Anne had trouble not laughing aloud.

Before her a drunkard slouched in an old wooden chair was snoring loudly with saliva dribbling out his mouth. In one of his hands a bottle was close to his chest, a strong smell of alcohol hit her nose like a battering ram, almost making her topple with the strength of the odour. The man was definitely in his fifties grey hairs already spreading on his scalp and to the messy stubble on his chin; his tongue was drooping out his mouth almost like Snowy. This was what seemed to amuse Anne the most.

She went into the store room at the end of the corridor and retrieved some food that would last them the next few days, a few bottles of water as well but not enough for them to be noticed particularly. With her bounty she crept past the man again and returned to the hideout that the three of them were now staying.

Once she opened and entered through the door Anne felt ecstatic; the adrenaline pulsing though her from the danger and excitement made her brimming with confidence she hadn't seen in a long time. "Jesus that was unbelievable!" she laughed, placing the precious food and water on the wood planks as she began turning the wheel that would lock their sanctuary. "I thought that this guy would catch me because I was moving like a bloody elephant. I got you some crackers and some jerky, there weren't any sandwiches available. Maybe I should go back and see if they have some in stock but I think you'll live Tintin."

She stopped - something was wrong and she turned around. "Tintin?"

From where he was sitting upright, Tintin was lying on his side, he had let the canister roll away and Anne could see it but didn't go to it. He hadn't simply fallen asleep, he hadn't been knocked out either and Anne was afraid of what this meant. She instantly went to his side; determined to not make the same mistake twice with the diagnosis. She felt his head and it burned her hand with intense heat, she then pressed two fingers against his neck and felt something worse than she could've ever expected. The thudding was like he had run a thousand miles, the constant beat of a tensed drumming.

Anne had no idea what it was, but she knew it was bad enough for him to be seriously ill; or worse. She prayed it wasn't worse – she didn't want that to happen, not again. Angrily she ripped a large piece of her dress away and dipped it in a little bit of water. She began dabbing it onto his boiling scalp to try to expel the horrid fever.

For the rest of that day and night, Anne nursed Tintin as best she could. She left him only to fetch more water with the watchful eye of a whimpering Snowy over his master's shivering body. Their supply of water growing more and more limited with each trip she made. Their situation darkening with every hour that he got from bad to worse; his temperature rising and falling, his heartbeat quickening to a rabbit, then slowing to a near stop. After a million scares that he might freeze or cook under the pressure of his illness, Anne continued to become the Nightingale that she never thought was in her.

To her relief he woke; this only occurring once the sun was touching the horizon and evening was fast approaching. Night was about to fall on them both.

His eyes opened to a blur of things he couldn't identify. "Anne…" he whispered.

"It's OK," she said equally quiet and with the damp cloth in her hand, on his brow. "It's OK, I'm here."

"What happened?" he slurred, attempting to get up despite the illness he had been feeling since he had woken up hours before.

"I don't know." Anne spoke honestly, staying strong for them both despite how she was falling apart deep inside. "You were like this when I got back – did you… did you feel bad when you woke up?"

"This morning I was relieved… that you were still with me…" he began stirring again, his breath rasping and his temperature lowered. "That you weren't dead… I couldn't live with myself… I wouldn't let you…"

Anne hushed him and felt… something by his words, but she was unsure. Whether it was something she had barely felt in a long time or just her being foolish, she was sure that she wasn't going to leave him. "I'm not going anywhere." She said to herself and unconscious Tintin.

But she knew that this wasn't going to end well; this was the beginning of the end. Anne never felt so afraid in her life, because she didn't know what to do; what should be done to save them both. Despite the bleak future before them, she was determined to not give up on him; he couldn't die.

He wouldn't die.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Anne felt colder than ice – it felt like when George had died. But it was slower, and much, much more painful. Because she held a dying boy in her arms… no, no he wasn't a boy. He was far too worldly-wise to be a mere boy, incapable of any sort of heroic deeds. His babied face was a mask to his true nature – this was no boy.

This was Tintin; her only friend in this dark place.

She dipped a hand into the cold water. It was somewhat warm underneath her touch but she couldn't feel it, she didn't want to. All that she thought of was the deterioration of the man before her, the only person in the world willing to help her. This place was her own personal hell, she never felt so alone than in this ship and only one fact was clear to her – she had to save her dear friend.

He would not die.

There was a lot of time for her to consider what to do: each scenario playing out in her head with plausible and insane endings to it. Every single one was graphic in its own terrifying, gore infused way. Each one ended in disaster, all finished with a death she wouldn't be able to bear, sometimes she saw her own. Maybe that was insanity bearing its hideous head but she didn't care for it – all that mattered was staying alive.

Keeping Tintin alive.

Anne considered giving herself up to Pincer in exchange for medicine. That was how desperate for an answer she had become – but never enough for her to actually go through with it. She imagined them being tied up again, the terror of his presence close to her own filling her with dread before the months she had ran away, keeping what was left of George alive all tumbled down around her. Ground into the dust as another few strangers who went missing abroad; never to be seen or heard of again, to arrange such an exchange would only prolong Tintin's life. Not save it.

She saw it all; her life that had made her come up to this point snatched away for the sake of profit, for business.

With a heavy heart she closed her eyes; all escapes blocked away and all hope down to just a few breaths. Their situation was direr than she could possibly imagine – she prayed for help more than ever. Hoping for help from some otherworldly source; knowing secretly that it would never come. She was alone – no man was left to protect her as they always did. Nobody was left but Anne Poart: a child compared with Tintin's fast reaction and strong will.

Yet here they sat; the tables turned; everything depending on plain old stupid Anne.

Before she knew what she was doing, Anne was stroking his hair. At first it was a weird feeling that she felt the red hair within her fingertips, somehow wrong, but eventually it soothed her. The sweat from his brow making her palms damper than before; there wasn't any point denying what was blatantly shaking her bones. She was afraid of this feeling of complete loneliness, and now it pressed upon her like she was buried alive.

Screaming where nobody would hear – calling for help that never came.

The hours went by with a pace that Anne couldn't stand; she hated the silence and began talking to herself. She hated herself for being so useless that she couldn't think of what to do; how to help him. It was just like when George's home had burned to the ground, she ran and didn't even try to save him. It all came back as a nightmare that she watched with her eyes wide open.

_The smoke was blinding. It consumed her like she was drowning in it; she didn't know what to do. Anne was woken by the heat, then the smell and sounds of a crackling fire caught her and caused her to get up and run. _

_She could barely see, tripping at each and every obstacle that could've been fallen over. Anne knew her way from only memory – the bright fire making her only panic and leap faster through the place she had slept in. It was rare that they slept together, for they were yet to be married. She was heading for the one place that George would be right now; the study._

_She screamed his name through the pressured heat, he didn't answer. Again and again she cried to George through the night; eyes watering from the smoke. Her voice soon became useless – but not before she saw him._

_A body lay on the carpet; it did not breathe or move and flames licked around it. Anne was too shocked to move – the death before her had a lake of blood growing from it. Somehow she realised what had to be done, she had to move._

_Anne smashed through weak walls and doors, escaping into the darkness. Her George was dead; he was gone._

Anne didn't understand why he was murdered. To say he had enemies was an understatement – the device was sought over by many businessmen and gluttonous gangsters. She had no idea how the hell they discovered it – the secret was as strict as it could get. Every refusal made them more and more angry; every one caused him to become excruciatingly paranoid.

She had hoped that he had just given it up; his pride had caused so much pain to her. Anguish that he would never have given her intentionally, Anne was sure of this. She was so tired of this – tired of running from shadows.

It was then, with immense dread causing her to shiver that she decided what to do. An idea so incredibly crazy made her almost shout out loud with victory or terror – she was unsure which. How Anne would be able to just end this forever and save Tintin from dying.

She emerged from the underbelly of the ship, walking each stair without seeing what was happening around her. Nobody approached as she marched to her doom, they raised the alarm, of course, but they did not intercept. Anne felt everything around her slow – all around her was the shock of faces who did not understand why she was a stowaway, others went to find the first mate or captain.

She saw the wood that was slightly split from age and use, the barrels lining the corridors smelling of fish and sea. The wooden walls of the ship were varnished perfectly, causing the evening light to dance upon it and made the world brighter. But not to Anne; nothing was bright through her eyes everything had become dull and ordinary, grey and colourless. That didn't stop her until she reached the main deck of the ship – the sunset blinding her and causing her to stumble.

Lightning quick men were holding her to the wood ground as soon as she emerged from the darkness; she felt splinters stabbing her cheek but didn't recoil from it. She watched the world turn as panic ensued as the men realised that the girl had managed to hide for so long. They barked questions she didn't want to hear from them. She didn't fight them as they dragged her away; they wore similar jeans but different shirts of varying colours. But the sweat could be seen clearly and they all wore emotionless faces, stern and annoyed at the unexpected interruption.

Then she was on the floor again, thrown like a bag of meat without any kindness. Anne lay there for a few moments, shaking with uncontrollable anxiety. What would come next? Had she been an idiot in this endeavour?

She had been deposited into something that seemed to be a scene out of a period drama. Upon the walls displays of spyglasses, ancient papers scribed with drawings of maps and rusted cutlasses. She felt like she had walked through a museum of maritime history; plaques underneath the artefacts gave the feeling of legendary captains and swashbuckling pirates. Anne lifted herself onto her knees, feeling very, very small in such a huge place – a rat inside a palace.

A voice came from behind; it was Irish, husky. "What're ye doin' here?" he commanded.

When Anne turned to face the Captain, she swallowed. He did not seem to be a forgiving man, and she cringed under his gaze. She had expected this, even though she had an idea of what to say, to speak words to a man of such strength and stature had stolen her of any breath. "I need help."

The man sighed. "Now why would I give ye any help? You're a stowaway – I throw them overboard, lad or lass."

"My friend…" Anne choked on her own voice, eyes daring to water. "He needs medicine, I don't know what's wrong but he's dying-"

"Tintin?"

She nodded slowly, her eyes widening in surprise. "You know him?"

"This ship wouldn't be here without him, hell, I let ye both on board," he didn't smile at the memory, he remained entirely serious. "Ye say he's dying?"

Anne then explained what happened to Tintin; panic and guilt often entering, escaping and re-entering her voice. She spoke of how they were being chased by Pincer's thugs mercilessly at the docks, the bullet that pierced his skin by the purest luck that causing bleeding and how the wound must have been infected somehow. Within she felt guilt that stabbed her like an icy spike, crawling underneath her skin like an Arctic river. Once finished, the Captain rubbed his eyes angrily, annoyed at her words.

Under his breath he cursed Tintin's idiocy. "I guess he got ye involved in this?"

"Not exactly, it's a long story." She turned away slightly, wondering what the Captain would ask her next.

"It always is." The Captain took out a wooden pipe, it was well used and had dolphins inscribed on the outside, he stuffed tobacco inside the pipe and he lit it with a match. The smouldering smoke went into his mouth and escaped out his nostrils and mouth, it cascaded upwards in swirls. "I don't want to hear it, but I do want to know why ye did this. Tintin's in trouble yes, but ye weren't supposed to port with me; both of ye would've got out when Iceland was closer."

"You don't care that he's dying then?"

"Now I didn't say that – but I admit it wasn't what was planned." Blackhauk puffed a few more breaths of smoke.

Anne expected so much more and felt disgusted by how he was speaking, they were friends. People who helped each other in troubled times – Tintin was at deaths door, why wasn't he doing anything? How could Blackhauk be so heartless? "So this is a – an inconvenience?" She began to cry, her voice breaking from the anger, frustration, stress and malice for this man who didn't care. He did not react to this feminine reaction. "He is – he will be… Jesus he's barely got a day and you're sitting here like the laziest bastard I've ever seen. You won't even help him."

The Captain sat up from his chair and looked her in the eyes, the snarky remarks causing a practiced anger to bubble in his chest; he held his pipe forward, pointed to her as if accusing her of something. She had nothing to hide. "Don't you judge me, girl." He spat at her. "You think I let my men die on deck when a storm's-a-brewing? I don't even consider it. Do you know the pressure I'm under from your friend Pincer? The reward he offers is beyond that of a sane man's price. My men are bayin' for ye blood so they can make their families live better and longer. The life 'ere is bad, lass; if you did a day's labour on the Prawn ye would get that lesson taught the hardest way.

"If I wanted ye dead, I'd given ye to Pincer long ago. Trust me – I've had enough chances."

Anne swallowed at her misjudgement – they weren't as safe as she had assumed. No wonder Tintin wanted to escort her to the storage room. "I just want him to live. The rest… I can handle."

Blackhauk raised an eyebrow expectantly, wishing for her to continue. Anne was apprehensive, but spoke of what she was quickly planning in her head. Every word causing her instinctive, rash idea into a calm, calculated technique that she refined with each second. Once finished, the Captain was more than surprised. The mission she was suggesting was…

"Suicide." The Captain shook his head slowly. "Damn suicide, that's what it is, girl. You want to go up against – what? Ten, maybe twenty men with guns; just for ye pride?"

"It's not pride anymore. I want to do it now because lives are at stake-" she saw Tintin's pale body in her mind. Barely breathing and shivering as sweat ran down his brow. "-people will die over this thing and I want to make sure that it never sees the light of day again." Anne bowed her head towards him, feeling as though she was begging to the ruler of the ship she now stood on. Everything rested on him now – to give them up and make a fortune, or to respect the friendship he shared with the dying boy in the underbelly of the ship. "Will you help me?"

Despite what his conscience told him, Blackhauk nodded, adding: "This might be the end of ye, my girl. But I thought that with a lot of things Tintin's done in the past. I'll do what I can for Tintin and help ye as I can."

It took little time before Tintin was taken from the underbelly of the ship to the upper deck, oblivious to nothing but the colourful, vivid dreams thudding against his temple. He was laid on a lumpy cot which was commonplace on the ship and had several patched holes on it. He barely stirred and was watched over like a hawk by Anne. She was eventually overcome by the exhaustion of keeping awake for two days on end and fell asleep beside him, holding on to his hand.

For a few short hours the pair were as peaceful as could be despite their combined smell, bruises, cuts, wounds and aching bones; but Blackhauk saw storms brewing far to the west exactly where they were heading and knew that a few nicks were the last of their worries. He didn't disturb the sleeping couple, who he thought looked like hell and needed a good meal and a bath. Instead he returned to his lodger, observing how they may be a fine pair. The thought made him smile slightly; Tintin was definitely _not_ the sort of boy to get girlfriends so easy. He had concluded long ago that it was his hair that caused women to stay away – the quiff did make him ridiculous through the cold Captain's ancient eyes.

He instinctively touched his own brown locks; considering a slight hair change to appease his usually unimpressed wife.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The girl felt the cool wind whip her hair and face gently; she rode onwards on a strong, steady horse. Days had passed since they had docked in a small port and this was all arranged. She knew of what she was headed to and the consequences, but this was the only way now. Her life didn't matter; she didn't fear what would come after anymore – she was tired of running from the inevitable, Anne needed this to finish for good. It was not a want, a last request; it was a need.

Iceland, unlike what she thought, was a beautiful place full of green; the air was cold as ice and stabbed her with each breath she took. Mountainous terrain and log homes with chimneys ruled the lands, animals and trees also taking abundance of nature. It controlled the land with the gentle grace of a goddess, allowing life to bloom and all hate to evaporate. True peace roamed as free as it should among what she had first seen of the country. Maybe to somebody like Pincer it was a boring existence – but to Anne it felt more like home than anywhere else these past few months.

She patted the horse beneath her hard; a crude achievement that he deserved for getting them ten miles away from the small cottage that was healing the dying. The Captain hadn't suggested riding on a horse; she was the one who insisted upon it, just as Snowy insisted to stay by his master. She needed time to think. They had stopped at the edge of a long waterfall and river; it glistened in the evening sun. Her eyes ran along the area, it was a dusty plain and had only the deep river as company. She sighed tiredly.

Anne climbed off the saddle and stepped onto the dried ground with practiced grace. The last time she had ridden had been over a year ago, at least. But the feeling of beast and rider couldn't truly leave her; the animal breathing with her was good when they travelled, it felt natural as with any horse and rider. The horse was white and brown in complexion, a very healthy breed although she couldn't place what it was precisely. He seemed to like her from the feed she gave him now and again; the occasional pat making the feeling of rider and animal mutual.

The old Captain had told her the place he had tipped off Pincer to find her; he informed him that the deal would only be made if he came alone and with a large amount of money. The money was only there to make everything seem more believable. She would be alone; completely and utterly alone for the first time in what felt like an age. This caused her to shiver – but the memories of Tintin kept her strong.

He was constantly in her thoughts; his grin, boyish jokes and incredible bravery in the face of danger. Anne didn't know what to think. She missed his presence near her own; it felt good and of safety. All his courage was incredible to her, but wasn't like that – how could she ever be like that to stare danger in the face?

All the memories forced her throat to tighten and the guilt to bury her alive. Anne felt the watering of her eyes, the familiar sobbing making her quiver. She cried with no objections now – because Tintin was surely dead by now.

Anne knew his end. He wouldn't survive this illness, people had told her that he would recover in time but those were lies. The uncertainty in the eyes of doctors and nurses who visited was unmistakable. She saw how lifeless he was when she had left but two days before, it was so much worse and she had even said goodbye; the man she had come to respect as much more than a name in a newspaper was gone. Forever.

This was a vengeance for him. He wouldn't die in vain. Pincer would pay one way or another.

Anne wiped her eyes, but they continued to weep despite how she wanted them to stop. It was all her fault; she had basically killed someone and this was how she was going to justify it. She felt so small, so weak and pathetic. The trees loomed around her, judging her as she did herself. Anne tried to ignore them, striding to the river.

She gazed at a reflection in the water that ran alongside; she saw a strikingly beautiful girl with big green eyes, thin seductive lips, a rounded nose and ears. But she also saw a bruise forming on her left cheek from that thug who tried to beat her into submission; it was a sickly, ugly green that stung to the touch. She wore jeans that were plain and a red tartan shirt that gave her a cowgirl impression. She had cleaned and groomed herself before leaving but the travel had taken its toll. She saw the scars of all the pain she had endured.

Anne wished that there was another way. But there wasn't. There never was.

It took only thirty minutes before she was found sitting by the river by the man she could recognise by stench.

Anne was empty now – nothing more remained but an empty shell. Her very name meaning little to her; she was ready to meet with Tintin. She felt ready for death.

"Good evening, Miss Belle." Pincer greeted with venomous charm, he stood about ten feet away from her, mocking her with a terrible grin; she slowly stood. "Or is it Poart? You change your name so much I can't keep track."

"It's Anne." She stated, emotions boiling within her; but she kept her ground, facing him and looking right into his eyes. "Stop with the small talk."

"Oh – I see. Grown a backbone, have we, Anne? About time, I thought you were going to be boring forever." He stepped more into the light but not towards her, he noticed her tears.

"Let's get down to business." The girl spoke calmly despite her hatred. "You want the device, I want the money. You come alone?"

Pincer showed a large briefcase and threw it in the space between them. From the sound of the landing it was a heavy package, obviously containing the amount that he had made their bounty. At this thought she became more agitated. "Of course," he replied.

Anne switched her gaze between the case and Pincer, the case and Pincer. Then she gingerly revealed a canister from her jean pocket. It glistened in the late sunlight.

"Unfortunately," Pincer announced. "I lied. Tut, tut. You should know better than to think of me to be so stupid. She's all yours." The man parted slightly but remained clearly in sight. He turned to face something or someone that wasn't there – something Pincer expected to be there at that precise time but wasn't coming. He looked around with a horrified look in his eyes. It was unmistakable the fear he had and Anne was more terrified than entranced by the emotion.

Blood exploded from his forehead as a bullet was shot through his skull.

Pincer fell down to the plain face first – his blood leaving a lake for all to see.

Anne was overcome with shock; she couldn't breathe. The stench of death drowned her in smog she couldn't avoid. She felt weak on her legs but they couldn't keep her standing, she saw the man stare at her without seeing; eyes glazed. The white suit now stained with Pincer's own blood. His forehead dribbled blood and flesh hung from the fatal shot. She should run but her legs refused to move, she felt her legs give up under her weight; tears forced their way onto her cheek and into the ground. She shook in the freeze of the dead.

Then she saw a dark shadow approach – he strode a murderer's gait.

"Annie." A voice. His voice. No, no, no, he had died; this was her imagination playing tricks on her.

She saw the body herself. Anne looked up from staring at the body of Pincer – she saw him and it was no mistake, he was there. So close to Anne… so close she could hear his breathing and smell him. It was just as she remembered. It was intoxicating.

"George." It was barely a whisper – but none of it made sense; he had killed the bastard after her but how many chances had he had during the months of running? Where was he when she was left alone? She felt angry. She wanted to cry in relief but she was furious. She closed her eyes, telling herself: "You died… no you died I saw you on the floor. You are dead."

"You dumb bitch." He said coldly. "You were always so stupid – so shallow to only see what you were told to see. Of course I'm not dead, everything was a trick; an illusion of the finest proportions. A man did die; certainly, he was murdered in my home and became ashes in the fire I set to cover my tracks. He was in the coffin but he wasn't me when you buried it at the service. Now, however, I need my property: tell me where it is."

Anne shook under his gaze, shuffled as she did so. When she spoke it was a frozen whisper – her heart thudding much louder than a drumbeat. It wasn't due to a rekindling love, or even of liking whatever stood before her, because he had changed. "You. Died. You're corpse burned away, I know–I know I saw you! You had been murdered in the-the study. You even told me how to open the canister. So it would never get into the wrong hands."

"Did I?" The man paused; recalling the night she spoke of, then grinning in satisfaction. "Oh yes, that, well that isn't how you open it. 'The blood of my lover'? Pathetic. In fact, it cannot be opened; not by anyone but me. Now stop being a child and give. Me. The. Canister."

"Why should I say anything to you? You left me."

But she regretted those foolish words. He revealed an expensive pistol with an embellished white handle. He held it right to her forehead. Inches away from her fragile flesh. Barely touching the sweat that began to leak down her temple.

"I would reconsider," the man began, he held the gun level and did not move it an inch. Anne couldn't stop her shivering in the cold words and evening that descended on them both. "You see Pincer was my main competitor, which is why he had to die. The others accepted my bribes and they were substantial to them all. But it was the thrill of power that Pincer wanted most, not the money. I had to get rid of him. So I set a trap."

"By using the woman you loved as bait?" Anne felt herself stab the words at him. Feeling everything she represented peel away as she burned with unspeakable fury. She was a joke to him – not a woman, or a lover, or even human.

But George simply laughed in her face at such words. It was an insane, hysterical laugh that caused Anne to chill to the bone. He bent down, kneeling until they were nose to nose, the gun at her neck. She couldn't move a muscle. "I never loved you, Annie. You were always just another whore I could fuck any time I wanted; and the best part? You loved it. Every moment. You never argued either, the ring I gave you was just a signature to seal the deal. Barely cost me thirty pounds."

Anne spat in his face. Her eyes darkening to a point of eternal blackness. The pure malice she had for this monster was impeccable. George flinched and wiped the spittle off his cheek, before kicking the woman.

The blow was in the chest, knocking her backwards into the hard ground. She cried out from the shock and rose from the ground on her hands and knees, the boots he wore were metallic at the heel, making the sting double over. He struck again, this time with his fist across her jaw; she didn't fall back but this granted George another attack – this time she did fall back. She tasted blood and sand, her chest was screaming, her jaw smashed and everything bleeding.

He left her for a moment to rest his aching hand, talking as he circled her all the way around. "Are you going to be more co-operative, dear? Or do I need to bash that pretty little head of yours in before you give up?"

Anne did not answer – he took it as a no.

"Well let's try something different, shall we?" George took out a knife – it was jagged and sharp, but had the accurate delicacy of a precise weapon. Anne hated it from the sight. She saw the edge and knew what would come next.

"Please," she begged, barely speaking through the blood that she dribbled. She was sitting on her knees, backing away too slowly. "Please no, anything but that. No, no-" he stepped closer, malice of deadly intentions in his eyes; he reached her quickly, she screamed in terror. "Stop! Stop please!"

Anne fought; she kicked and punched in unknown panic. Screaming in absolute terror as he tried to find her skin with that edge – but he only managed a few cuts. Then he became annoyed by her resistance and snuffed it with a kick to the head. She was limp then; dazed and confused but not unconscious. She could still feel the edge pierce her skin and flesh.

She wailed as the pain intensified twice over; blood oozing from the words he was etching amateurish on her skin. The salty tears that ran down her face stung the cuts her face had received. There was no way to quell the merciless letters that he wrote with little accuracy. He cut so deep – nearly half an inch through muscle and tissue; a little skin dropping away. Anne found some strength from the agony and pushed George away, kicking and shouting, still disorientated and confused and in horrified shock. She tried to run, the only thought she had was to run – but only got a few feet away, it was too much. She couldn't do it, she couldn't do it.

He landed on his rear with a bloodied knife still clutched in his hand, he enjoyed this. The thrill of chasing a terrified rabbit while it tried to dash away – but this little bunny was crippled. It needed to be taken out of its misery; but not quite yet - this whore would die for him as enjoyment; her life would end when he wanted it to.

She clutched her arm with the other, glaring at him and screaming without meaning to, everything falling in the wind. She felt faint from the sight and loss of so much blood – she slid slightly from the abundance of it on the ground, the ends of her jeans sticky with it. Anne felt her heart rate become a constant thudding that she couldn't slow; the redness leaked uncontrollably, her death was going to be in pain. She couldn't face that, she couldn't, she wasn't strong enough; Anne didn't know of this sort of pain and didn't want to live like that, haunted by it. She wasn't Tintin, how could she be anything like him?

Anne kneeled then. She felt herself give up with life completely. This was impossible and nothing was right anymore, she closed her eyes in shame of defeat. She didn't want it to end like this. But she just wanted to die now alone – could he give her that, at least?

"You're going to give me what I want?" he demanded, the gun still ready and waiting.

"Yes." She spoke plainly, emotionless.

"Where is it?" she didn't answer. "Where is it you goddamn whore?"

"Tintin." It felt like an age since she said the name, swallowing dryly afterwards.

George seemed like compressed air, waiting to explode; he aimed the gun to Anne but instead shouted to the sky, twisting and shooting a tree behind him. The explosion of splintered wood and sharp noise of the gunshot made her jump and turn away. The man then kicked a head of Pincer's bleeding corpse, causing the nose to break entirely; this sickened Anne worse than anything.

"I killed that son of a bitch for nothing!" he screamed.

Anne stopped breathing. "What?"

"Oh come on," he again mocked her with that voice that made her seem so idiotic. "You think it was chance that the kid got shot by a bullet that just so happened to give him a deadly infection?"

"He's not a kid!" she shouted in his face, rising to see him in the eyes. "He was more of a man than you will ever be, he died to keep me safe. You're trying to rip me to fucking pieces! Well fine – do it. Shoot my bloody brains out, go on! I want you to; I want you to just shoot my head off. Because of you there's nothing left of me now, I'm dead, you sonofabitch! I'm completely gone now and it's because you lost your fucking plaything!"

Anne found tears again streaming down her face, her body shaking in anger, fear and shock, everything coming down to this. She found it the best time to take out the last card she had in this dangerous game.

She revealed a pistol. The pistol that would've killed Pincer, if she was given the chance.

George stared at it – again with laughter in his eyes. "You gonna shoot me now, Annie? Do you have the guts to pull the trigger?"

Anne found the trigger, like the Captain said. The voice told her to squeeze, just to squeeze it and it would all be over in a flash of light. This was what it came down to – all she needed was to shoot him. Shoot the man who killed Tintin, killed her innocence. Right between the eyes. Right above his nose.

She remembered things she didn't want to think of now – the smell of George when he kissed her, the words he entwined around her. How he proposed, telling her the wonderful things about their new life. The night they both spent on the rooftop dancing in Paris, the lights serene and the noises of the world distant. Where they were in love in peace and he told her he loved her. Her George and Annie, two innocents enjoying life – now looking to kill each other.

Anne felt herself breathe slow, blinking away the tears of happiness. She was raped by a psychopath; she didn't have sex with a lover. She didn't love him. She couldn't love that thing before her. The monster had murdered a man in cold blood. He had carved letters into Anne's flesh with a jagged edge; it stung in the evening air even as it kept bleeding.

She looked at George; she felt the gun loosen in her hand. She saw his white pistol stay completely still. Aimed at her chest; but he too began to remember. He was lowering his own weapon as he tried to fight the feelings as Anne did.

A minute passed and nobody had made a move: the past they shared kept their hands from squeezing the trigger. They felt as one when the beautiful times they spent together spun like a dream through their minds. Anne began to wonder if George was completely lost – maybe parts of him remained that she could piece together like a careful puzzle. It was an impossible dream but she couldn't just shoot him without knowing. This hesitation might be her only chance, but he was salvageable, she was certain of this. She hoped that it might be true.

She held her gun steady. Trying to save George's life. "Just stop this George." Anne begged quietly. "Please, let's just not do this anymore. We can forget about the canister, we can start again. Let's go home."

George shook his head, his voice remaining firm. He spoke with such violence that the gun shook with every word. "Stop it. I do not love you. I just want my canister so I can live in luxury. I just want to be alone, don't you understand?"

"I just-"

"No! Stop talking." He commanded – Anne was reluctant, but obeyed.

The gun in his hand was steady again; they aimed for each other's chests, they couldn't aim for the other's head. They couldn't look into the face of the other for fear they might hesitate. They stood fifteen feet apart, each with their gun poised. It was a stand-off between two who used to love each other. But now only loathing remained – Anne more than George could ever feel. He had used her, he had caused so much hurt to her that all that she wanted was his death or her own. Nothing was left of Anne.

An awkward silence followed.

Anne was about to end his life. She was to pull the trigger with absolutely no conviction or guilt, until she saw it. A flash of ginger hair and a youthful face, calm, determined eyes. He was crouching away from them, watching events unfolding. She had seen ghosts today, but this one was real. He looked with real fear that caused his eyes to light up with it, his skin paled at the sight of what was before his eyes. He had completely recovered from his illness even though it had nearly killed him days before.

She saw Snowy's fur beside him and knew for sure. He was there – he had survived through death. Anne didn't understand how or why but she didn't care to understand, Tintin was alive! Her gun lowered and her face gave away a wry smile of relief and pleasure. He was alive. Everything was going to be-

BANG.

"NO!" Tintin yelled from his hiding place.

He rugby tackled the man who had shot her instinctively, they tumbled together in the plain where everything happened at a slowness Tintin couldn't stand. He pinned the man before him down to the dusty ground, smacking him with again and again with an iron hard fist leaving the enemy dazed and lost. The grip on the gun that had shot Anne was loose enough for it to tumble away. Tintin was about to hit again, but this time the enemy struck him in the abdomen – causing Tintin to spin onto his back, winded.

His enemy rose from the ground, crouched ready for Tintin's next blow. His hands hung before him in a boxer's pose, he spat blood and saliva onto the ground. Tintin also rose from where he lay; now facing the assailant with malice causing his eyes to become dangerous. He didn't ask why the man before him had shot Anne. He just wanted him to pay.

One way or another.

"So you're, Tintin," a red grin widened on his face as he regained some strength. "You have somethin' of mine, I think."

Tintin looked at Anne's squirming body for a moment. She was alive but clutching her side. Her arm was bright red as she tightly held onto her wound; Tintin felt an intense shiver go up his spine. It was not from the twilight freeze.

His enemy saw this, following his gaze to the girl. "She'll die if you don't give it to me."

"Why?" Tintin let the word sting him for a second. "Why would you hurt her, she didn't even-" emotion made him lose the words. "Why does she need to die? Why does anyone need to die?"

"Because she's a stupid girl! And you're a boy who cannot understand anything!"

"I know what you are. I know that you never loved Anne. You used her – she doesn't deserve that. She doesn't deserve you."

"Who does she need?" the man demanded mockingly. "Someone like you? Hah! She deserves nothing less than what I've given her."

Tintin attacked for a second time in an outburst of anger – the world spinning as he ran for the enemy before him, crashing into the plain. Dust blinded his eyes but he could see where the man was trying to fight him, the anger coursing through him like a rush from a strong drug. It caused Tintin to intensify the strength he put into his blows, he didn't stop hitting and hitting his face until his enemy was barely conscious, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, eyes slits of blackened bruises. Then as quickly as the rush of battle came, it left.

Tintin stood tall above the man who had shot Anne. All he saw was a face completely beaten into something which he would indefinitely scar from. Tintin spat right into the mess of blood and sand.

When he turned to see Anne, he didn't pause to look. He ran straight to her side. To see what damage had been done. Tintin's heart sank.

The bullet had penetrated the right side of her waist. It was a wound that bled uncontrollably and it left a wicked stain on her hip. Anne was covered in dried and wet blood and it had become sticky from the constant supply. Her skin was icy and paler than the moon that rose as she slowly slipped away. She still held onto her wound with one hand but it was too weak to keep her blood within her. Anne knew she was dying. She could feel the life seep away – bit by painless bit. Her tears were drying - her spirit fading.

Tintin found a hand that lay useless beside her and held it tightly. "Anne?"

The name was familiar… the voice and face more so. "Tintin…" she closed her eyes a little… she was so tired…

"Don't sleep, Anne." Tintin ordered sharply. "You have to keep awake, OK?"

"Only if you don't go anywhere." Anne whispered; her eyes fixated on the man before her. The grip on his hand tightened only slightly.

"I'm not." He said softly. "No chance of me going anywhere."

Anne shook her head, crying as she did so. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

She shivered. "Everything. I nearly killed you, Tintin… I nearly…" her grip weakened. Tintin tightened on it tenfold.

"You're the only reason I'm not dead, Anne." He smiled a little. "I owe you my life."

She swallowed – Tintin could see the effort she put in to keep her voice clear to him. She spoke slightly louder. "I need to tell you… I didn't say what I needed to. You are the greatest man I have ever known, Tintin. I wanted us to become so much more." Anne looked to the setting sun, happiness wiped on her wounded face. She closed again. Her breathing became shallow.

"Anne?" she did not stir. "Anne!"

Tintin thought despite the guilt that weighed like an anchor on his back. Tugging him down into the earth and further. He felt something sting his eyes. Usually he couldn't cry, but she was fading away fast and he was responsible. Anne had done nothing wrong, only what she thought was right. She was just acting on impulse as he usually did, but it went too far! It always went too far. Tintin felt the single droplet fall down his face, onto their bloodied hands enclosed. Only one other followed, but it was roughly wiped away because he had to be strong for them both. He couldn't give up when she needed him most.

Then an idea popped into his mind.

Tintin had come was on a motorcycle, it was still there. Waiting for them both to leave, he felt hope swell and warm him. It was an impossible hope, a very, very unlikely venture but he had no choice. This wasn't over yet, he smiled to himself at this revelation. After freeing the tied down horse, Tintin wasted no more time, he picked up Anne quickly, gracefully and with due care. She didn't react to the sudden outburst and didn't resist it – he took her to the metal beast that rested against the tree. He was aware of her eyes pinned to him but he couldn't care less, anything to keep her awake was welcome.

He thought of her words, they kept him strong. Tintin felt more tears dare to cause him to cry but he ignored them, placing Anne behind him on the bike and ordering her to hold on; she could no longer hear him. He fired the engine, it roared into life without any conviction and he drove into the darkness.

Tintin ignored every sign telling him what to do or say on the road, he knew that Anne was dying. She had risked everything to keep him alive, and he was going to return the favour. She wasn't going to die; her life was going to be long and happy. Tintin was going to make sure of this; he was going to find help.

He weaved through the foliage with speeds that would shock racers; forty, fifty, sixty miles per hour through thin wooded areas. Hills tried to stop him, causing the suspension to panic at most points, but Tintin ignored it all. He knew the way, he had driven before this way – the road was close, but close enough? He could only pray.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Tintin sat alone in the London hospital, holding onto a cup of cold coffee. It was hot once, when a sympathetic nurse offered it to him. But all heat had gone from it by now. He had arrived hours ago via emergency helicopter from Iceland, he had brought Anne himself. Carrying her in his arms like a proud hero – although people had said such things, he could feel nothing like a hero.

Because Anne was dying in the most painful way possible while he was waiting uselessly in the ward outside where she was being operated in. Doing nothing.

He was leaning forward in the chair he sat, scratching a sleeping Snowy behind the ears. He would not leave his master after he was found in the Prawn. Tintin needed and wanted the company of his best friend. Focusing his eyes on the cup he held, but thinking of everything that had happened. She didn't deserve to die like that… being tortured by having everything ripped away. He watched it all happen in the bushes. He _watched_ when he could've done something, anything. Tintin was filled with hate at himself. He felt monstrous, inhuman for his lack of action.

"Good morning, Tintin." The voice belonged to a Thomson. He couldn't care less which one or what they wished to say. He didn't feel like talking at 2am.

"We need you to give us a statement of what happened."

"It's preferred that you do this now... orders are orders, I'm afraid."

He looked up, aware that he probably looked like hell. Well he had gone through it – the upper classed policemen could judge him however they wanted. They were spotless in their sharp suits and bowler hats. As usual.

He explained everything that had happened with no emotion and little detail. How he woke unexpectedly in an Icelandic hospital, the message that Blackhauk had given him (names were not mentioned) and then hiding as events unfolded. The gunshot and the struggle were explained vividly but the words he spoke with Anne were private. If they wanted more they would just need to look in the operating theatre. She was all the goddamn drama in one mangled body. Tintin was asked much, but he could only answer little. The night tiring him intensely.

"And what happened to the man who had attacked Miss Poart?"

"I don't know." Tintin stated. "I knocked him unconscious near the river. The - uhh.."

"Gulliche Hievir." Thomson finished, accenting the foreign words clumsily. "Translated as 'the Golden River'. He wasn't found when we sent the forensic team out."

"But we did find the arms dealer codenamed 'Pincer'. What was left of him, anyway; wild animals found him first." The other brother took out a picture of the deceased man. It was taken by a police camera, he was wearing sunglasses and looking away from the lens but there was no mistake of who it was. Even in Tintin's exhaustion he confirmed his identity with ease.

"So the guy who shot her's still out there?" Tintin asked with an iron tone.

"For now, yes."

"But leads are being followed into his-"

Tintin lost it. "Leads aren't enough!" he yelled. "He's done all this and he walks away. He's got away! Because of me."

He saw everyone stop and stare at him. Tintin was standing, yelling at officers a half an inch taller than he. Everyone saw how estranged he was to this place. Another world where a disinfectant smell that clogged all air, white coats of doctors, green scrubs of surgeons. The Thomson twins were nervous of his temper; it was not normally this short. All the hospital staff and patients went back to their business, the drama fading much slower than the eruption. Tintin sat down slowly, the cold cup still held in one hand. Snowy whimpered a little beneath him, the racket causing him to wake for a moment. Everything around Tintin was heavy and slow. His eyes struggled to stay open.

"Get some sleep." Thomson ordered. The brothers departed together, promising the head sister that they would return with more questions for the patient.

"If she ever wakes…" Tintin muttered, glancing at the long corridor. At the end of it Anne lay somewhere while the bullet was extracted from her body.

He thought of how she stared at him, hoping that he would swoop in and save her like some superhero. The title deeming him some otherworldly prophet that came to save thousands, maybe millions of lives. But he couldn't save the most important one. Tintin felt so alien and ignorant. He wanted to be that superhero once. But he wasn't bulletproof – he was a mere man.

2:30am came before he knew it. And with it came a storm that Tintin couldn't ignore.

Anne's father – Mr Poart entered the ward pointing a cane accusingly at Tintin. The man was elderly and heartbroken but still he was insistent. Tintin expected nothing less – he wanted nothing more than to be judged for the fool he was.

"Where is my daughter?" Mr Poart demanded, voice shaking in worry.

Tintin had no strength for words. He merely indicated the dark hallway – ominous in the early morning light.

"I don't know why you're here." Poart said. "But I don't care – get out of here right now. She doesn't need to see you right now."

"Anne won't be able to – she's still being operated on."

"How dare you speak my daughter's name." the old man stared with malice, Tintin stared at the ground. "You have no right to be here. You're the reason she's here in the first place! You and your god forsaken adventures. No wonder everyone you love is dead-"

"Don't speak like you know me," Tintin did not yell but the tired annoyance and anger in his voice caused the man before him to shirk before the gaze. He did not stand either, just stared at the man before him with the youthful, wise eyes. "I have seen things that would freeze you. I have taken my body to its very limits and beyond to the point of death. I have loved so much and have lost enough for this to become my lowest. I got to know your daughter, it was brief but I know her. I saved her life and I'm not going anywhere until I know if she's alive."

Tintin let the words hang like a noose in the air. Mr Poart stared angrily at this embarrassment, but had no response for the child.

A female voice from behind interrupted. She coughed politely to get their attention before speaking. They turned with hope in their eyes. "Miss Poart is alive." The sister said; Tintin sighed, relieved at this. Her father was still stung from the icy words just spoken to him and did nothing. She continued: "But only just. She's stuck in a coma from the lack of blood in her brain. The surgeons have done their best, but she lost so much blood… it's a miracle that she survived at all."

Tintin's heart sank again. He felt it drop through his chest until it rested in his stomach. He placed the cup near him – attempting to stay composed. He covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes of sleep. Anne was alive but in a coma? What sort of life was that to live? All these questions and many more sank through him like rocks through wet sand. He asked only one: "How long will she stay like this?"

"Not long." The sister tried to smile in her words but the men could no longer feel it. "Because there is a little bit of brain damage from so much bleeding we can't say for sure, but hopefully soon."

Mr Poart looked to Tintin. Tears were in his aged eyes, he made no attempt to wipe them away. "This is all your fault."

"I know."

"She trusted you. She put her life in your hands and you just… let her die like this."

Tintin looked up to the man. "Anne isn't dead, though. There's still hope."

But Mr Poart was too wise to believe in hope. He shook his head. "She is gone. I'll be dead before the month is out, I'll never see my little girl again and it's all your fault." He left without another word on his cane. Tintin felt more guilt and pain go through him.

He had ruined her life, her dying father's life and had saved thousands. He didn't feel good about any of it. Tintin didn't see the need to stay much longer. He rose from the seat, stretching before he took his coat. Snowy yawned and stood ready by his master.

"You shouldn't feel bad, you know." The sister – the woman who had just spoken looked at him sympathetically. He didn't want it or any such feelings from her. "She's alive, but in a coma, that's good isn't it?"

Tintin shook his head. "She can't talk. She doesn't know anything around her. Anne didn't even know her father is dying. Even he considers her dead."

"But she isn't!" the woman cried. "She's in a coma and will come out in time. But she needs her friends to help her. Her father will come back in time but he's heartbroken at the moment, but he will come back. He has to."

Tintin sighed, knowing then that he truly could not stay. "Good night, sister."

Miles away, in a suburb of Manchester, a man was sitting alone in a ragged bar. He was quiet in his drinking, having strong shots of whiskey now and again. The man had lost this time, yes. But he had underestimated the resources Anne had; and George wasn't about to do that again.

Drowning his loss was comforting; after all, Tintin was unlikely to spring any attack anytime soon. He was currently in mourning of the deceased whore; George knew where he had cut her. She would die from the wounds he inflicted, he was certain of this.

But she had died too fast. The little bitch was given a much more quiet death by that annoyance Tintin. It was no matter, though. The boy was foolish enough to reveal weaknesses; very obvious points that could be easily pressured. George smiled at the thought, taking the final swig of the shot glass. Five in all, exactly and without fail: just as perceived at the beginning of the evening.

George promised Tintin's end would be in due time – but he wanted to do some errands first. That would give him time to grieve over the whore. When George was prepared and Tintin was not; then he would strike.

And he would strike the hardest of any other.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you all for reading! That is the last chapter of the Girl and the Golden River - hope you liked it. I am currently working on a sequel - Tintin and the Lie Weaver - if you want more. Look at my profile for updates and review on anything I might of done sloppily. Thank you all again for reading this far and I wish you to be patient for the sequel. AG<em>


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